


Swiss Army Knife, Duct Tape, White Cane

by BrailleErin



Series: Blind MacGyver fics [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 1985)
Genre: 1980s, Africa, Airplane Crashes, Airplanes, Badass, Blind Character, Blind MacGyver, Blindness, CIA, Cold War, Espionage, London, London Underground, Original Character(s), Travel, World Travel, phoenix foundation, spy MacGyver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-12-16 14:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 52,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21037565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrailleErin/pseuds/BrailleErin
Summary: It's March 1988. A Russian ballet dancer has sent a code asking for help and MacGyver is the man for the job, but he's blind. Pete sends him in anyway, and they both find out the simple extraction points to a way bigger mystery than they bargained for. In fact, MacGyver might be the only person able to stop the escalation of the Cold War and the explosion of another World War!Cross Posted on ffnet





	1. Chapter 1

Premise: After he is blinded in the episode "The Negotiator," MacGyver gets his sight back. What if he didn't? Some adventure, some mystery, maybe some spy novel hero action, a lovely sidekick, and lots of new MacGyver cleverness thrown in. Come along for the ride!

Summary: It's March 1988. A Russian ballet dancer has sent a code asking for help and MacGyver is the man for the job, but he's blind. Pete sends him in anyway, and they both find out the simple extraction points to a way bigger mystery than they bargained for. In fact, MacGyver might be the only person able to stop the escalation of the Cold War and the explosion of another World War!

A/N: My posting schedule is a little random. I write when I have time. I love to get reviews and they definitely encourage me to post more often.

Disclaimer: I don't own MacGyver, characters or any of it. The usual.

* * *

Chapter 1

"All right, nice and easy," a voice growled at him, and the hard muzzle of a gun was shoved into his side. MacGyver winced. "We know you can't see any more, so you'll be no trouble. Just come along quietly."

MacGyver resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They would see whether or not he could cause trouble, but not yet. He would bide his time.

Who were these guys anyway? The gun pretty much ruled out rehab teachers. He doubted they transported students at gunpoint into echoing garages like the one in which he found himself.

The goon pushed him forward, and he stumbled over a length of pipe along the floor. Thankfully, they hadn't tied his hands, apparently assuming that blindness was enough to keep him docile. He regained his balance, just in time for another shove in the back. He hit one shoulder on the metal frame of a door, and staggered into what sounded like a much smaller space than before. The door slammed behind him and a lock clicked.

MacGyver stood still for a moment, listening intently. He was alone in the small space. No breathing or rustling of clothes sounded near him. The footsteps outside receded.

To MacGyver, the room was pitch black, although there could have been a little light he couldn't see. It really didn't matter, and after weeks under bandages, the dark seemed more familiar than it ever had before. He'd never been afraid of the dark anyway. Heights, now, that was another matter.

XxXxXx Two weeks earlier XxXxXx

"This is really a coup for the Phoenix Foundation," Pete Thornton said. "You really did it this time, MacGyver. Exposing the fraud in the environmental analyses was one thing, but hiring Deborah to kill you? Good grief. That was taking it way too far."

MacGyver followed Pete out of the courtroom, through a quiet carpeted hallway, past the hushed telephones of a receptionist's desk, and into the brilliant sunshine of a spring afternoon. His eyes closed involuntarily against the light, and he put a hand to his forehead. Pete stopped and turned toward Mac.

"Hey. You okay?"

Mac stood where he was, just outside the glass doors of the courthouse, his hand shielding his eyes, his other hand balled into a fist.

"Yeah, yeah," he said through clenched teeth. "Just give me a minute."

He waited, mentally pressing against the searing headache pain, willing it to subside, but it got worse. He felt his heartbeat thudding in his ears as the ground began to rock dizzily beneath his feet. Pete's voice faded, swallowed up in the blackness of unconsciousness.

He woke in a hospital bed.

As he lay fingering the smooth sheets, he wondered vaguely if it was the same bed he'd woken in a week earlier when he'd narrowly missed being blown to smithereens by Deborah's bomb. It could be the same bed. Or it could be one down the hall. It didn't matter. The soft bustle of hospital sounds were the same. The smell of cleaners, the beep of monitors, the stillness of his room all felt exactly the same.

He reached up and touched the cotton bandages on his eyes, held in place with criss-crossed strips of tape. Maybe this was the same day, not a week later. His eyes hurt, but somehow he didn't really care much.

Morphine. They'd given him morphine.

His head felt unbearably heavy and he let it sink into the pillow and drifted off on the hazy nothingness that pain meds brought.

Later, he woke again, the fog of morphine lessened, but the pain in his eyes intensified. His head rolled on the pillow, trying to find a place where the agony was less.

"How are you feeling?" The voice at his bedside made him jump. He hadn't known anyone was there.

"Hurts," he replied, his mouth dry and cottony. Both hands clenched as the pain traveled into his skull and down his neck muscles. He retched suddenly, and rolled onto his side to vomit over the side of the bed.

As he did so, he seemed to see bright sparks of stars and pinwheels of light erupt in the blackness under his bandages. He pressed his eyelids closed as tears seeped out between them.

"This should help," said the nurse ambiguously, and soon the morphine fog enveloped him again.

Much later, he struggled to the surface of his tossing sea of consciousness again. This time, he was aware of people in the room with him. Quiet voices spoke with one another, and a sleeve rustled. He took a ragged breath and lifted his chin slightly.

"MacGyver?" Pete's voice asked from his left. "Are you awake?"

Mac turned his face to the left but couldn't get his parched mouth to form words. His entire being felt dry, shriveled. He took another deep breath.

"You gave us a scare, there, Buddy," said Pete, a touch too heartily. "The doctor says you developed an infection in your corneas. They weren't healing properly. Anyway, the infection gave you a fever, and it was touch and go there for a while."

"It looks like you'll be all right now, though," said another voice from the foot of the bed. Nikki. Great. Just who he needed to see right now. Or not see. Whatever.

Mac opened his mouth like a dying fish. He managed to scrape out a word, "water."

"Oh," Pete said. "I'll ask the nurse."

Mac heard retreating footsteps and more muffled voices. The footsteps returned, and Pete said apologetically, "they won't let you drink water yet. Something about you puking all over the monitors. But they gave me some ice chips for you."

Without hesitation, Mac opened his mouth like a baby bird and held the ice in his mouth, feeling the cool moisture soaking into his dry tongue.

"That's good," he rasped.

"Well, we'll let you get some rest," began Pete, but Mac stopped him with a gesture, hampered as he was by IV lines.

"Thanks for coming," he managed. He wanted to say more, but his head was swimming again, and the pain on the surface of his eyes felt like shimmering fire.

He vaguely heard Pete and Nikki leave, and the nurse enter. She set supplies on his tray table and began checking his pulse, her fingers cool on the skin of his wrist. When she had checked his temperature and blood pressure, she began peeling the tape off his bandages. He winced as it tugged on his skin.

"Just changing your bandages, Mr. MacGyver," she said apologetically and continued to peel. In spite of his eyes being closed, the bandages were stuck to his face with dried mucus, and he gagged at the smell, and the pain of her light touch.

"Let me get you a dish this time," the nurse said wearily, and she held one ready for him. He used it, then sighed deeply as she gently sponged his eyelids, each stroke causing searing pain.

Thankfully, she finished, and rebandaged his eyes again, while he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

When he finally awoke, he knew immediately that his fever had broken. He lay in the cool bed, enjoying the sensation of well-being that washed over him like a wave. Footsteps clicked across the floor, and a female voice said, "Mr. MacGyver? I'm your doctor. I think it's about time we check on those eyes."

"A lady Doctor?" he thought groggily. "That's pretty cool."

She leaned over his bed. Her starched white coat crackled, and she smelled faintly of… was it lavender? He found it soothing.

The sensation of well-being stopped abruptly as the nurse began peeling tape again. He wondered if he'd have any eyebrows left when this was over.

At long last the tape and bandages were off. He heard the nurse step over to the blinds at the window and lower them with a rattle. Remembering the pain of the light outside the courthouse, he felt grateful for her thoughtfulness.

The doctor sponged his eyelids, which were again glued closed. This time, a dull ache accompanied the sensation.

"What can you see?" she asked.

He reluctantly forced his eyelids open, but found now that the dimness of the room wasn't painful. Rather, everything seemed to be in shadow. Objects appeared vague and distorted; shadows that squatted in corners of the room without clear lines or form. He scanned from left to right, trying to recognize anything, but the misty haze that filled the room rendered everything characterless.

"Not much," he admitted ruefully.

The doctor clicked something in her hand. The haze in his left eye brightened, and he flinched.

"Can you see the light?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

She repeated the blast of light in the other eye, which he could also see.

"Any shapes?" she queried.

He looked across the room again. "I-I'm not sure," he admitted.

"How many fingers?" she asked and he looked in the direction of her voice. For a second, he thought he saw the movement of her hand, but it refused to take shape. Instead, a whitish-gray veil hung between his eyes and her hand.

He shook his head wordlessly.

"Well," she said briskly, snapping off her light with finality, "we'll keep the bandages on for a few more days, just to be sure the infection is all the way cleared up."

MacGyver's mouth felt as dry as if he'd swallowed cobwebs. "Will… will my eyes clear up?"

"There's always that possibility," she said, her voice just a little too cheerful.

"Doc," he said, facing her. "Are my eyes going to clear up?"

She paused just a beat too long. "Your corneas were burned, Mr. MacGyver. Instead of healing, they developed an infection, which has caused corneal scarring."

"Corneal scarring? What does that mean?" he asked softly.

"Scar tissue is blocking your sight. There may be the possibility of surgery in the future, once the infection is completely cleared up."

"And that will fix it?" he pressed.

"There is a chance it can be improved," she said hesitantly.

"But…?" he asked, voicing the unsaid word that hung in the air.

"Your eyes are susceptible to more infection, and with damage this severe, it's unlikely that surgery will help entirely. There is also risk of detached retina."

"So, that means…?" he asked, although he thought he knew the answer.

"You will likely always have some level of visual impairment," she admitted gently.

He sat quite still, letting this news wash over him. Visual impairment. Blind. Why didn't she just say it? He was blind. Would always be blind, to some degree. Terrific.

He sucked in a lungful of air.

"Mr. MacGyver?" the doctor asked, as if he'd somehow managed to evaporate and she wondered where he'd gone.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "I got it."

"Are you all right?" she asked, setting a cool hand on his shoulder.

What did he say? No, he wasn't all right. He was blind. He didn't have any interest in being blind. Still, as usual, his pragmatic side kicked in.

"I'll be okay. Thanks, Doc."

She patted his shoulder in sympathy, and left the nurse to the task of replacing the gauze and sticking more tape all over his eyebrows. Darkness settled over him with the gauze, and he lay back on the bed, wondering if all of the last half hour was a drug-induced hallucination.

He hadn't known he drifted off until the sound of the door opening roused him. Stiff male shoes tapped their way across the floor toward the bed.

"Pete?" he guessed.

"Hi Mac," Pete Thornton confirmed his identity, but his voice had a catch in it. "I, uh, saw the doctor out in the hall."

"Yeah." Good friends didn't need words.

"Yeah," Pete echoed blankly. "Hey, don't worry about your job. I'm placing you on…"

MacGyver cut him off. "Disability? Retirement?" he asked bitterly.

"I was going to say leave. Just until you've recovered and gone through rehab." Pete sounded gruff.

"Makes me sound like an addict in recovery," muttered MacGyver, and to his surprise, Pete snorted.

"You'll be back in no time," he said.

"Let me guess. At a desk." MacGyver couldn't keep the anger out of his voice.

"Like you would ever be happy behind a desk," argued Pete.

MacGyver wondered how Pete could be so understanding when the rest of the world probably would want to lock him away in an institution, but, he shrugged it off. At this point, he felt too tired to try and reason it out. He was asleep before Pete left.

XxXxXx

Two weeks later, MacGyver stood in front of the hospital entrance, savoring the smell of the morning air and waiting for the van that was supposed to pick him up and deliver him at the rehabilitation center. The orderly had delivered him to the front door in a wheelchair, which felt oddly disconcerting to be driven through the muffled halls in that way. Once outside, though, he was glad to stand and stretch his back, letting the breeze ruffle his still-too-long hair.

He was equally glad to be shed of the bandages and having his eyes uncovered and open felt more like normal than he'd been for weeks. His view of the road in front of the hospital, obscured by the scars, looked dim and shadowed, but not black. The bright sun on his face filtered through in some measure, and he enjoyed its light, however unuseful it seemed for getting around.

A car pulled up to the curb, probably the van he expected. He bent, and picked up his duffel, waiting for the driver to identify himself.

Without speaking, someone opened a door to MacGyver's left and a hand grabbed his elbow. He was half guided, half shoved, into the back seat of a car, his hand sliding on vinyl, his other still clutching his duffel. The door slammed shut, and a second later, the passenger door in front of him also closed.

It was odd, he thought, that the man hadn't said anything. Also, he'd been imagining a van, but this was most definitely a sedan, and the two men in the front seat hadn't said anything. A prickle of fear ran along MacGyver's spine, but he sat still and waited.

The car swung away from the curb and pulled out into traffic.

"Name's MacGyver," he said by way of introduction. The men in the front seat still said nothing. A cigarette lighter clicked.

The car turned a quick corner, and MacGyver braced his hand against the seat.

Information, he decided. That's what he needed most of all right now.

He swept his left hand across the seat, and discovered and untidy pile of food wrappers, a flashlight, and a sweater. Hmm. The flashlight had possibilities.

Shuffling his feet to the side revealed more food wrappers, and something that clanked. Tire chains. Definite possibilities there.

But were the guys driving the car actually just his rehab teachers? Only very quiet?

The car slowed, and pulled into a place that blotted out all of the scarce light in MacGyver's vision. He waited in the darkness, tense and listening. The noise of a garage door closing was followed almost immediately by the sound of his own car door being opened.

XxXxXx

His tennis shoes stood firmly on smooth, hard concrete. He decided to start behind him in exploring the room, since he knew roughly where the door was. As he expected, the metal door was locked, although it also had an inside lock. That was interesting, he thought, and pressed the button.

The door was in the corner of the room, and the walls were also metal. His foot clanged against something, which turned out to be a wastebasket half filled with rough paper towels. A quick sniff revealed hand soap and automotive grease. Hmm. Flammable.

Continuing past the wastebasket, he found a toilet paper holder, empty, and beyond that, a toilet. Next to the toilet was a sink. Trying the faucets, he discovered that the cold water faucet worked, and the hot one did not. Above the sink hung a cracked mirror, and next to that was the wire frame that held the roll of paper towels.

Under the sink were the usual pipes, a grimy pile of magazines, a large wrench, an additional roll of paper towels, and back toward the back of the floor, a cigarette lighter. Handy.

He felt in his pocket for his Swiss Army knife, but remembered that he'd put it in his duffel, which of course he didn't have now. He wondered what the goons had done with it. If it was still in the car, he might be able to find it later.

The next obvious thing to check was to look for windows or vents through which he might escape. This search proved fruitless, however, as the small room had neither window nor vent on the walls or ceiling. The fourth corner, did have a shelf with junk on it: cat litter, for soaking up grease, some paint, a bucket and a bottle of ammonia.

By now, he was back at the door. Unlocking the knob again, he set his shoulder against it. Nothing. The knob turned, but the door wouldn't budge. Was it a hasp? A bar? He tried to recall the sound as the door had shut, but the click could have been the latch, or an exterior padlock. He tapped on the door and listened to the tone. Near the center of the door the tap sounded muffled. He guessed it was a bar rather than a hasp, and he turned back toward the shelf.

Taking down the empty plastic bucket, he removed the wire handle and began to straighten it like a coat hanger. One end he bent into a hook, and then began to feed the wire through the crack between the door and the frame. Like a slim-Jim, he thought wryly.

Halfway up from the floor, the wire encountered resistance and he delicately explored it from both above and below. It appeared to be roughly the size of a two-by-four and made of metal. He adjusted the size of the hook he had made and went at the bar again from above.

In short order, he'd lifted the bar high enough to be free of the metal hooks that held it. Gently, carefully, he eased the door open until he could slip his hand through the crack and grasp the bar, so it didn't crash to the ground, alerting the thugs. He set it silently on the ground, upright, against the wall, and slid out along the opposite wall of the cavernous space.

One of the biggest drawbacks to blindness, he soon discovered, was that he had no idea if someone was watching him. He supposed that if there was, a hue and cry would be raised, so he let out the breath he was holding and inched farther along the wall.

A huge, blurry rectangle of impossibly bright daylight shone from a distance, and from that and the noises, he decided that the garage door had been left open. If he could get to it, that would be his way out. Walking straight across the concrete floor seemed like suicide, however.

He listened again for voices. They came from his right, high up and muffled. Probably some kind of office, he supposed. Chances are there were windows overlooking the workspace floor, so he'd need to be clever. He edged to his right, towards the office, since there was less chance of his movement being spotted if he was directly under the windows instead of across the room, especially since he wasn't sure how dark it was. It's possible the dimness that he saw was just due to the corneal scarring, and the room was actually very bright. He could hear the buzzing of overhead fluorescent lights, so he knew it wasn't too dark.

His right hand lost the wall of the bathroom as it fell away toward the back of the shop. At the same time, his forehead struck wood and he winced. Reaching up to touch it, he discovered the wooden frame of a rough stairway, likely the one leading to the rooms where the voices were. His toe also struck wood, but under the stairs was an open space. Investigating with one hand, he grimaced as his hand moved directly through a cobweb. Batting it away, he continued into the small, low space, and found several piles of thick, grimy chain. Next to those were a few scattered connecting links, and he put a couple into his pocket. He decided to leave the chain, since silence was his only camouflage.

The stairs descended to his left, but before he could move, a door overhead clanked open and he froze. He realized he hadn't put the metal bar back on the bathroom door, a mistake that might cost him now.

As if the man behind the door had changed his mind, a slam overhead told MacGyver that the door had shut again, and he silently released the breath he had been holding.

He debated with himself over going back and replacing the door of his prison in order to deflect attention, or to just try to get out of there as quickly as he could. He decided on the latter, but knew the second they spotted that door, he would be found.

Crouching, he circled the bottom of the wooden stairs, felt along the wall, just under the office windows, he guessed. He stayed as flat as he could to the wall, but grimaced when his foot caught the edge of a large wooden spool, and a metal tool crashed to the floor. He bent to pick it up and found that it was a good-sized wrench.

The office door above opened again, and MacGyver winced. Rats.

This time, footsteps came quickly down the wooden stairs. Almost without thinking, Mac turned and when the man reached the bottom of the stairway, Mac leaned out from the side wall and swung the wrench. He'd underestimated the height of the man, still on the last step, and it hit him in the chest with a dull thud. With his breath knocked out of him, the man fell backward onto the stairs. With a light touch, Mac ran his left hand up the front of the man's shirt, found his hair and pulled him forward into a sitting position. Using the huge wrench in his right hand, he clocked the man across the back of his skull, and the man crumpled like a forgotten suit of old clothes. Mac grabbed him by the armpits, awkwardly, still holding the wrench, and dragged him back along the wall away from the stairs.

This time, he avoided the wooden spool, which evidently had been used as a makeshift workbench. It sat in the corner between the office wall and the outer metal wall of the shop. Leaning against the wall of the shop, Mac found a long piece of aluminum or copper tubing, lightweight, but rigid, and about five feet long.

Perfect.

Using the tube as a blind man's cane, he probed gently in front of him so as not to knock any more things over. Surprisingly, the other men in the office hadn't come down the stairs yet, for which he was profoundly grateful.

Using the metal pipe, he made his way around several metal tool cabinets and a workbench. In the far corner was a taller metal box; he supposed it was a dumpster. He was close to the wall with the bright light now. All he needed to do was to slip around the side of the door.

At this precise moment, as he stood with his right hand on the side of the metal dumpster, he heard shouts from the office doorway behind him. Feet pounded down the wooden stairs, and several voices shouted to one another in a language Mac didn't recognize.

For a split second, MacGyver stood rooted, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Then, he bolted, feeling his way toward the door of the garage. Outside in the dazzling sunlight, with his vision washed out to a milky white, he turned, and with his right hand on the outside metal wall, began to follow it as quickly as he dared. Inside the garage, several pairs of shoes slapped toward him on the echoing concrete.

MacGyver's hand slid onto empty air as he reached the corner of the building. He turned to his right, and continued running along the wall, the metal pipe and wrench gripped in his left hand. Footsteps rushed after him, and any minute now, he expected to hear the whine of bullets.

Without warning, his feet slid out from under him and he was falling nearly vertically. Rocks, grit and dry, thorny bushes scratched at his back and arms as he slid downward. His tools immediately caught on the brush which grew thicker as he fell. He released the pipe and wrench, and let them fall where they may, while he continued his mad decent.

A particularly thorny bush reached out to claw him across the face and the stem of another grasped his wrist wrenching it sideways. He greeted his teeth in pain. Just at that moment, bullets began whizzing through the bushes, and he stopped his attempts to get back on his feet, instead, sliding on his rear and back, grimacing as the gravel tore through his shirt and into his skin.

His fall felt as though it took forever, but in reality, it was only about 30 seconds until he lay gasping and panting on his back under a thick tangle of thorny brush. The ground was very nearly level here, and so far none of the bullets had found their mark. He lay still, letting the dust around him settle, hoping it would not pinpoint his location to the men above.

Once the noise of his fall had quieted, he could hear their voices above and behind him, sounding confused. They shouted to one another, and he could hear their feet rushing along the top of the ridge, which must've been where the parking lot of the building fell off to this gully of bushes in which he now lay.

The pain in his torn back grew steadily worse, and as quietly as he could, he turned over to lie on his stomach in the dust. There was just barely room to do so, for he was surrounded by a tangle of scrub brush, which effectively hid him from the guns of the men above.

At this point, his plan was to wait to see if they would give up. Instead, he heard more words, and argument, and then an ominous crackle. He smelled smoke, and realized that they had set fire to the bushes above him. 


	2. Chapter 2

The dry brush caught quickly and he could feel the heat descending toward him. He ground his teeth, and with his face pointed down the hill, began to combat crawl through the bushes.

Unbidden to his mind came the jungles of Viet Nam, and he was crawling, just like this, while Charlie sent bullets screaming around him. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly and shook his head to clear it. This was not Nam. There was dry grit under him, not mud, and the bushes above him were desert-dry. California. Not Nam. Still, his already racing heart pumped even faster.

The fire picked up speed, a rushing, roaring, layered wall of flame and heat behind him. Out of habit, he glanced backward, but could barely make out an orange glow. What came clearly, was the rush of smoke across his nose and mouth, making him choke. He turned back forward and crawled faster.

More voices drifted down to him from behind. He was fairly sure they spoke something related to Arabic now, and he thought he recognized a word or two.

He reached the lowest point of the gully, and to his surprise and relief, a creek wound its lazy way through the bottom of it. The water felt gritty, but at this point, he wasn't about to be picky. He rolled his body into the muddy water, just as the wall of flames tore over him.

The water grew warm, and the knuckles on the back of his right hand began to singe where they rose out of the creek. He held his breath, and pressed his body lower into the silty creek bed.

The fire passed in a whoosh and a rush, jumping the bank and scrambling up the other side. MacGyver's lungs burned, and he risked lifting his head long enough to gasp in a ragged breath. As he did so, a bullet pinged into the water next to him, and he let his body go limp, hoping the shooter thought he had been hit.

Growing nearer, he heard the sound of sirens, and relief poured over him, knowing the thugs would be scared off by the authorities. Fire trucks raced toward the fire they had set to flush out MacGyver, and he heard their shouts dwindle as they fled the scene. He turned his head the side in order to suck in another breath of smoky air. When no shots came, he lifted his dripping face from the thick muck.

Nothing.

Mac's shoulders sagged and he blew a breath out past muddy lips. He was safe. In fact, it wasn't two minutes later that a voice called, "You all right, Mister?"

0-0-0

Talk about deja vu.

He was back in the hospital, and he heard Pete's shoes striding purposefully toward his bed.

"Hiya, Pete," he called with a wry smile.

"What in the hell happened, MacGyver?" Pete asked furiously. "You were supposed to be safe and sound in the training center, and instead I get a call that your back in here with a torn up back and second-degree burns?"

MacGyver sighed and began to recount the events of the day.

"You don't have any idea who these guys were?" Pete asked, rhetorically, Mac thought, because if he'd known he would have led with that.

"No idea. They weren't speaking English, or Arabic, although that was closer. There were three or four of them."

"Where was the garage next to the gully where the paramedics fished you out? They at least told you where that was?"

"It was out by the tracks," MacGyver said thoughtfully. He'd been chewing on this scrap of information himself. "A garage owned by Hoestetler, but he hadn't been there for a week. Apparently these guys broke in, so they could use it as a temporary base."

"Maybe they knew him?" Pete asked, and MacGyver shrugged. "Maybe. We've had our eye on him for a while now."

"Well, heal up," said Pete, a bit too heartily. "I won't slap your back this time."

"Thank you," said Mac dryly, thinking of the flayed skin and the burns that wore thick bandages now. Keeping his mind off the pain had been his sole occupation for the past four hours.

"I'll come get you personally when you're ready to leave," promised Pete. "We can't have these goons coming back for another crack at you."

"Thanks."

"And when you're healed up, I have a job I need you to do," Pete said over his shoulder as he left the room.

"What?" asked Mac incredulously. "Don't you ever give a guy a break?"

But Pete was gone. Mac rolled his eyes to himself and settled his face into the pillow, as the fiery pain raced again up his back.

0-0-0

A week later, MacGyver rode in a taxi toward the training center. Mac's cuts and burns had been downgraded to painfully sore, from absolute agony, and he was once again released. He could not have been happier to leave the boredom of the sterile hospital room.

"I think you're going to like the training center," Pete was saying, but MacGyver only half heard him.

Being in the car had reminded him forcefully how little he could see. It reminded him how terrifying and helpless he had felt when the thugs kidnapped him. It made him wonder how exactly he would do the job Pete had lined up for him in two short weeks. His usual pragmatism quailed in the face of such odds, but he didn't have any more time to think about it, because the taxi pulled up to a curb, and the driver cut the motor.

MacGyver opened the door and stiffly rose from the passenger side, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, because he didn't know which way to go. Pete hurried around the car.

"Like I said, you'll like it here. I did."

Mac whirled to face his friend. "You did?" he asked, the shock plain in his voice. "What were you doing here? Why…?"

He heard Pete suck in a long, slow breath.

"Glaucoma," he said tersely.

"Glaucoma?" asked Mac in confusion. "But that's treatable, isn't it?"

"Yeah," admitted Pete slowly. "But mine is complicated and advancing pretty quickly."

"When… When were you going to tell me?" asked MacGyver quietly.

"Well, it just never seemed like the right time," said Pete lamely.

"So, we're both… blind?" asked MacGyver with a sudden burst of wry laughter that snapped the tension like a string.

"Yeah, I guess so," said Pete. "That's why I wanted to get you back out into the field as soon as possible. I learned in all of my rehab training that even with less vision as I'm sure to experience in the next few years, it's better to adapt and continue working."

"I wasn't sure I could," admitted MacGyver soberly.

"Just wait," Pete said cheerily. "You'll find out all sorts of things you can do."

A voice greeted them from the building next to the sidewalk where they stood. "Peter! So nice to see you again. And this is your colleague?"

"MacGyver." he said by way of introduction, turning toward the man.

Pete finished the introduction. "MacGyver, this is Hoss Adams, the director. Hoss, this is MacGyver."

"Hoss?" asked MacGyver with an upraised brow.

"Old nickname," the director said cheerfully. "Might as well start calling me that, because you're sure to wind up calling me that."

"Ooohhh-kay," said Mac.

Hoss walked briskly to the taxi where he retrieved Mac's bag from the trunk and handed it to him.

"Now, if you'd like to take my elbow, I'll show you into the center," he offered. "Talk to you soon, Pete."

The goodbyes being said, Pete got back into the taxi, and it pulled away, while MacGyver took the offered elbow and followed Hoss into the training center.

He had a vague idea of a carpeted hallway, and the building smelled like a combination of old building and lemon furniture polish. Not a bad combination, really.

"Peter said you would only be with us for two weeks, is that right?" Hoss asked.

"Yeah, I think so. Kind of a crash course, I guess." MacGyver said.

"Here is your room," said the director, and mentioned that it was the first door on the left past the stairs. Mac was surprised how easy this information made it to picture the hallway in his mind. After a quick tour of the restroom down the hall, Hoss left Mac alone in his room for the night.

The next few days were a whirlwind of classes. Although Mac initially felt hesitant, he found his natural curiosity and love of learning taking over as he explored the center's kitchen, braille library and even wood shop. From cooking classes to daily living skills like shaving, and lessons every day with a long white cane, he found that he hardly had time to think, and always fell into bed exhausted at the end of the day.

In cooking class, he was shown a talking timer, a stove with bumps on the buttons, and even a microwave oven with a dial. His instructor humored his preference for tofu and milkshakes. The woodshop surprised him the most as the blind instructor showed them how to use power tools safely.

"We find it builds the confidence of people who are blind if they can build things and use the table saw and drill," the instructor explained. Mac had to agree that he would not have thought it possible until he was actually doing it himself. Knowing where the saw blade was, and where his hands were, he learned to keep them out of the path of the blade, and tactile measuring tools, like a click ruler, made it easy to cut correct lengths.

The cane he was given folded into six sections and was held with an elastic cord. When it snapped straight, it came up nearly to his shoulder. He was informed that the folding cane was the very newest technology, made of lightweight aluminum. The eighties, he was told, was a good decade for new technology.

The instructor took MacGyver out to the sidewalk where they practiced using the cane to sweep a path along the sidewalk, assuring him there were no obstacles in his path. At first, his stomach clenched with fear, but it didn't take long before he began to trust what the tip of his cane told him. He learned to find street crossings, listen to the flow of traffic and cross. He learned to find doorways to buildings and to make mental maps to get to his destination. He learned to use public transportation, and the best way to ask for directions.

In braille class, he didn't fare as well. He understood the concept of the cell and the dots making little shapes, but couldn't for the life of him tell which one his fingers felt. It would come with time, he was told, but he dreaded the discouragement of braille class.

0-0-0

He still felt shaky in his newfound skills when the two weeks were up and Pete was back at the curb, this time with a driver from the Phoenix Foundation, to pick him up.

"How'd it go?" Pete asked, before Mac had even settled himself in the car.

"Crazy," MacGyver replied, knowing Pete would know what he meant. "What's this new job you have for me?"

"We've really needed you back in the saddle," said Pete, with a new soberness in his tone. "Two of our agents disappeared in London and we need someone to go in who will not be expected."

"Yeah," said MacGyver dryly, "I'm sure they won't expect sunglasses and a white cane."

"Exactly," said Pete. "We need you on a plane tomorrow."

MacGyver sighed. He really would have preferred some time off, to recuperate, maybe take in a hockey game. Except he couldn't see it. Hmm… Maybe he could listen to the radio play-by-play. He snapped his attention back to what Pete was saying.

"I have your tickets and passport ready to go. We'll have a driver take you to the airport, and the airline personnel can assist you from there."

"Sounds great, Pete," he said, forcing a smile. He wondered why Pete was pushing him so hard. He found it tiring enough just to get through the day while his brain screamed for visual images it couldn't get.

Still, when the next morning came, he couldn't suppress that little thrill of adventure he felt whenever he had to travel. He waited with his carry-on bag at the foot of his stairs, hoping this time it would be the Phoenix Foundation driver who found him first. It was, and in no time he was whisked to the airport.

His first real shock happened when the driver pulled up to the curb and he got out of the car.

"Mr. MacGyver?" said a voice to his right.

"Yes," he said, turning quickly.

"I have a wheelchair for you, sir," said the young woman. "Your ticket said assistance was requested."

"A wheelchair?" asked MacGyver in disbelief. He turned back to thank the driver, and then turned again to face the woman. "I don't need a wheelchair. I just need you to show me where my gate is."

"We provide wheelchairs when assistance is requested," said the young woman in a tone that indicated she had shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't need a wheelchair," repeated MacGyver, thinking that there was no way on this green earth that he'd ride through the airport in a wheelchair. He felt frustrated and ashamed, as though this woman somehow didn't see him as a human, but merely as a request on a slip of paper. He choked down his anger, and tried to remember what Hoss had said at the Center.

They won't know the right way to help, so you'll have to teach them.

"If I can just take your elbow," said Mac, flashing his best heart-stopping grin at her. It worked, and the young woman abandoned her wheelchair, and gave him her arm instead. When she spoke again, her voice was several pitches higher, and Mac grinned to himself.

"Right this way, Mr. MacGyver. May I see your ticket? Gate 14C? Right this way."

By the time they reached Gate 14C, Mac was kicking himself for trying to charm her. She fussed and fluttered the whole way there, as giggly as a schoolgirl, and he breathed a profound sigh of relief when she deposited him in a molded plastic seat near the departure desk.

Getting on the plane was thankfully uneventful, as the stewardess who came to collect him was experienced and professional, but he realized he just had a taste of the unpredictability of the public around blindness, and the thought occupied him for the first several hours of the flight.

At first, he merely reflected on how annoying it was to be treated like a child when he was a professional agent on his way to London. After some time spent chewing on this, however, he realized that this could actually be a huge asset. No, blindness itself wouldn't be an asset at all. It was, in fact, a huge pain in the butt. But having people underestimate him would really be handy. After all who in their right mind would suspect a blind guy?

His meal arrived, and he forced himself to eat some of the eggs, but couldn't down the slab of uncertain meat that might have come from almost any animal, judging by the smell. He finished his dinner with a biscuit and asked for some orange juice.

He stared out the window at the haze that by now was becoming so familiar he started to forget to notice it. He half listened to the on-flight movie, but paid little attention, instead thinking about the briefing Pete had given last night.

The greater London area had received several terrorist threats, suspected from a Libyan faction that had been growing in the region. Two agents, one from the CIA in the United States, and one from MI5 had been investigating when they both suddenly disappeared. It seemed that the Libyans had knowledge of the agents' identities and knew what to look for. It was for this reason that the DXS and Phoenix Foundation was brought on board. It was hoped that they could send in someone to stay totally off the radar, yet still manage to locate and rescue the missing agents.

MacGyver felt that the first part of that proposition would be a piece of cake. The second? Not as easy. Why send a blind guy to look for people? To look for anything? It was nuts.

He leaned his head back on the seat cushion and tried to doze, although the straight-backed seat would not allow him to get comfortable. He hated flying. Unless he was in the cockpit.

0-0-0

At long last, the plane taxied into Heathrow and MacGyver unbuckled his seatbelt and began thinking about stretching his legs. It still seemed almost an hour before MacGyver was able to retrieve his bag from the overhead bin and follow the press of people toward the door of the aircraft. The stewardess noticed his cane and asked if he needed help into the terminal. He decided to opt for adventure, and declined. He regretted that decision almost immediately as he exited the ramp and discovered he didn't know which way to turn in order to find the terminal. He stood awkwardly listening to the people hurrying past him, where they seemed to be swallowed in a vast quiet hallway.

"Do you need help?" the voice at his elbow made him jump. It was female, and friendly, yet hesitant, with the rough edge of shyness that he already recognized from people who thought they may have been offering unwanted assistance.

"Sure, if you can point me in the right direction, that would be great," he said, turning to smile at her.

"Baggage claim?" she asked. Her voice was lower to the floor than his, and she sounded confident and not as young as he had first guessed. He pictured curly hair, shoulder pads in her business suit, and smart pumps. He wondered how far off his guess was.

"Nah," he said breezily, "I just have a carry-on."

"Do you need me to hold your elbow?" she asked uncertainly.

"Let me take yours," he replied, giving her a crash course on sighted guide technique. "That way I can follow you." He held his cane and bag awkwardly in his left hand, and took her offered elbow in his right. Her bones were slim and light, and she wore a soft sweater.

She started walking, slowly at first, but as he followed easily, she relaxed and quickened her pace.

"Name's MacGyver," he offered, by way of introduction.

"Theresa," she replied. "Theresa Inglis. No, actually it's Theresa Reynolds."

"Are you not sure of your name?" he asked with a smile.

"Sorry," she said, still flustered. "I just got divorced. That's why I'm here. In London, I mean. I needed a break. I needed to get away from…"

She stopped abruptly. "You know what? Never mind. You don't need to hear all of my troubles."

"I'm told that blind people are extremely good listeners," he said, then winced at his own cliche. Had he really just said that?

She let out a long breath. "Jack. Jack Inglis. My husband. I married him three years ago, but I didn't know I married Sauron."

"Sauron?" asked MacGyver.

"Oh, sorry. Lord of the Rings reference. Only really dorky people read those books, I guess. Anyway, I left that bastard and I'm not looking back."

"Well, good for you," said MacGyver encouragingly.

"Enough about me. How about you? You're really brave to travel by yourself." She sounded just a bit gushing, and MacGyver cringed inwardly. "What made you, uhhh…?" She let her sentence trail off, unable to bring herself to say the word.

"Blind," he said with a grin. "You can say it."

"Blind," she said obediently.

"Corneal scarring," he said. "From an infection." Why did people think it necessary to ask that anyway?

"I'm sorry," she said for the third time. "Was it a long time ago?"

"Actually, not long ago at all," he said, reflecting on the fact that it had only really been a few weeks in fact. He was still struggling with his new identity, and he found he didn't much like it as something that he would wear forever.

She didn't reply to this, and he decided her attention was diverted by a choice of ways, because she leaned this way and that, reading signs under her breath.

"I'm not sure which way to go," she admitted sheepishly. "I need to find baggage claim, but I can't seem to find a sign that says which way that is. I must have taken a wrong turn back there." She turned uncertainly, and MacGyver mentally rolled his eyes.

"No! Here it is," she said happily, just when he was beginning to wonder if he might be better off navigating on his own after all. "You might as well come with me, since the doors are out that way."

"If you could just find a pay phone," he began, but she interrupted.

"It's this way." She took off again, and he juggled bag, coat and cane in his left hand to follow.

It wasn't far when he heard the shuffling of bags as the porters unloaded them onto the moving belts. Better yet, he heard the jingle of coins and the click of buttons on a row of telephones. He wondered if the airport phones were in the iconic red boxes or just in a row along the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

He turned to thank Theresa, but she was already distracted looking for her bags. He grinned to himself again and turned toward the phones. The first one in the row had the body of a stout man standing in front of it, and Mac winced when his hand brushed the man's suit jacket.

"Sorry," he muttered, but the man, busy listening, said nothing.

The next phone was unoccupied, and Mac dug into his pocket for the British coins he'd had the foresight to pick up before Pete left. Finding the coin slot proved to be harder, and he spent a frustrating minute or two running his fingers around the call box looking for it.

At last, he found it and inserted the ten pence piece into it, dialing the number he'd memorized under Pete's tutelage.

"Harris," the gruff voice on the line replied after Mac had made his request of the secretary.

"MacGyver," Mac identified himself. "I'm at the airport."

"Mr. MacGyver?" Harris sounded surprised. "We were told to expect you tomorrow." His tone of voice made it clear that having his plans changed for him was not something he enjoyed.

"Someone from the Phoenix Foundation should have contacted you," explained MacGyver.

Harris broke in abruptly, "We were not contacted, Mr. MacGyver, and as my driver is out today, I shall have to collect you personally."

MacGyver winced, but did not reply.

"I shall arrive in thirty minutes," said Harris, and rang off.

Mac slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle and sighed. This was not going as smoothly as he would have liked. He rubbed his aching eyes and straightened his still-sore scars that raced up and down his back and knuckles.

Then, he squared his shoulders and turned, determined to make the best of the situation.

"Mr. MacGyver!" fluttered Theresa at his elbow. "You disappeared. Naughty thing. But I've collected my cases now, so I'm ready to take you wherever you need to go!"

Mac decided that he had definitely made a mistake in accepting help from this woman who had appeared to attach herself to him like a barnacle. He wondered whether he would enjoy dour Harris's company more, or Theresa's.

"I needed to make a phone call," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the row of telephones.

"Of course you did," she replied and continued without stopping. "Do you need to change money? I need to gain some pounds. Hee hee, get it?" She giggled at her own pun, while Mac tried not to look appalled.

"I do, actually," he said politely.

"Then come with me," she said, struggling with a large suitcase, which she had added to her purse and carry-on. Mac offered to carry the case, but immediately discovered he needed both hands. Theresa took the handle of her case from the other side, presumably to guide him, but he noticed that she self-consciously touched his hand on the leather handle. He sucked in a deep breath.

"Lead on, milady," he said, keeping his tone even. He felt a tug on the handle, and he followed, the light on his right growing brighter as they approached a wall of windows.

A few minutes later, they had emerged through the sliding doors into the sunlight, which MacGyver's brain, ready for night and sleep, had difficulty accepting. The beginnings of a headache began to throb along his temples as Theresa abruptly dropped the handle of her suitcase and began hopping lightly up and down.

"Taxi!" she cried, and Mac supposed she was also waving her hand as her jumping became more insistent.

"Here we are, Mr. MacGyver," she said happily when a rumbling motor pulled up to the curb.

"Oh, I have someone coming to pick me up," he explained hastily, realizing that Theresa had assumed he would be riding with her to who knows where. He mentally shook his head that the white cane had so diminished him in her eyes that she had adopted him like a stray puppy.

"Where are you going?" she asked coyly, and he hesitated. Revealing his true destination didn't seem to be too dangerous to a mere acquaintance off the plane, but at the same time, experience had taught him to be cautious, probably overly so.

"Just exploring London," he said vaguely.

"With your friend?" she asked.

Friend, he thought. Not hardly.

He was saved from having to come up with an answer by another car pulling up to the curb and a door opening.

"MacGyver." Harris's voice sounded one notch more friendly than it had on the phone, which wasn't saying much.

"Oh, is this your friend?" asked Theresa with a note of distaste in her voice.

"Mr. Harris, Theresa… uh… Reynolds," Mac offered, struggling to recall the name.

"Charmed," said Harris dismissively and stepped toward Mac to take his elbow. Rather than correct him, Mac moved toward the car, suppressing his feeling that he was entering the driver's seat as he climbed into the left front seat.

"Goodbye!" called Theresa, and Mac waved a hand out the window at her, glad he wouldn't have to continue dodging her friendship arrows.

Harris lowered himself to the seat next to Mac with a ponderous sigh that suggested some bulk. With a grind of gears, he nudged the car away from the curb and into traffic.

"I spoke with Peter Thornton," he said without preamble.

"Oh good," began Mac, but Harris continued, cutting him off.

"I disagree with him entirely," said Harris coldly. "Putting a blind man into the field so soon after your injury is not useful to me or to you."

"Pete thought that underestimation…" tried Mac, but Harris went on as if he hadn't heard.

"No matter how impressive your dossier, a newly blinded agent has no business being…"

"See here," said Mac, interrupting in his turn. "I'm not any more crazy about it than you are. But I do what I'm told." He'd decided that turning Pete into the bad cop was the best route since it put him on Harris's side rather than the opposite.

Harris made a noise that Mac supposed was a grumpy acquiescence and fell silent.

Mac tried to look out the window at the passing city, but found that the glare of light effectively hid the blurred gray buildings that were passing. Once, Harris tapped the brakes and harrumphed, then resumed his speed. Mac found the drive had just begun lulling him to sleep when the car pulled up to the curb and Harris turned off the engine. The street seemed narrow, and Mac listened for a break in the traffic before cautiously pulling the door handle with his left hand and stretching his stiff back as he stood. He unfolded his cane and closed his door, making his way around to the back of the car where Harris was opening the trunk to retrieve his bag.

"Didn't even really need to put this in the boot," commented Harris, as if in admiration for Mac's ability to travel light. "Follow me," he said, and clumped across toward the building that loomed over them.

Mac used his cane to find the step of the curb and somewhat hesitantly followed the footsteps. At the open door he paused, the darkness of the hall within effectively blacking out his vision entirely. As he'd been taught, he swept his cane ahead of him, looking for obstacles and continued to follow Harris.

"This way," Harris growled, turning to his right and beginning to ascend some stairs. Mac suddenly realized that Harris was testing him. Was he up to this job? This annoyed Mac, since the job he'd been given had nothing to do with navigating a staircase and offering an elbow to guide him should not have bothered the man at all. Mac tried to shake off his annoyance. There wasn't much he could do about it, and after all, the staircase really wasn't much of a problem.

Harris entered a room that smelled thickly of cigarette smoke, and Mac had the impression of clutter and desks. The scratch of a pencil and the ring of a telephone confirmed that he was in London's version of the Bull Pen. His cane hid a wooden desk with a thud, and he made his way around it, trying to keep up with Harris who seemed to be continuing on toward a more private office.

Mac followed him through another door and turned as he discovered Harris behind him, ready to close the door behind them.

"Well, you're here," said Harris, seating his ponderous weight in a squeaky chair behind a large desk. Mac, left standing, wondered if he should find a chair or remain on his feet. "I didn't want you, but we've got to make the best of it now that you're here. How much has Peter told you?"

"Not much," Mac admitted. "He said two agents had disappeared."

"That's right," affirmed Harris. "Two American agents were here to assist us with turning a Russian agent who had contacted us in a very unusual way. Before they could make contact, both of them vanished. We need you to finish their job."

"But Pete said I was supposed to find them," objected MacGyver.

"This agent is of the greatest importance," went on Harris, and Mac had the feeling that he hadn't been heard at all. "As far as your colleagues, we think they might have… you know."

Mac knew what he was implying by the distaste with which he had said the word "American." He assumed the two agents had defected. Someone had offered them money or drugs or sex and just like that, willy nilly, they'd gone off to Russia. He sighed with frustration. Calling out the man's bigotry against Americans would probably do no good, and he decided to let it go, like he had the remarks about the blindness. He needed more information, not to make enemies. He resolved that he'd add both missions together, because not for a minute did he think that the two US agents had defected.

"What's the information on the Russian agent? How did he contact you?" he asked, extending his cane slowly toward the chairs he hoped would be in front of the desk. They weren't.

"She," corrected Harris. "She is a very well-known figure, a dancer, Nadia Pletskya, which is of course, not her real name."

Mac hadn't heard of her, since he didn't follow ballet. He thought wryly that if she had played hockey he would have not only known her name but her stats as well.

"How did she contact you?" he asked.

"She has been touring the world," Harris said, "And she was dancing here in London. At the Royal Ballet as a guest. That's how she contacted us, through one of our people there."

"You have people at the Royal Ballet?" asked MacGyver skeptically.

"Of course we do," snapped Harris. "You see, she left two red roses in his dressing room."

"And that means…?" asked Mac.

"It's cliche, yes, but back during the war, two red roses had been a simple code between the Russians and the British, asking for help."


	4. Chapter 4

"What did he do?" asked Mac.

"He did not want to lose his cover, so he contacted us," Harris said, and added dryly, "It was not my choice to bring in the CIA."

_ I'll bet it wasn't _ , thought MacGyver.

"Two American agents stationed in London were sent in to make contact with Miss Pletskya, but she was already gone, although she had not been scheduled to leave for two more days. The agents, too, disappeared. Of course, we contacted your agency immediately," Harris explained.

And here I am, thought MacGyver wryly.

"We have a flat for you," said Harris. "You are capable of… living alone?"

"Yes," said Mac between ground teeth. "How about we get right to work? Where is the Royal Ballet?"

"I can take you there," offered Harris, to Mac's surprise.

"That won't be necessary," said Mac coldly. The less time spent with this man, the better. "I can get a cab."

With relief in his voice, Harris said, "That will be fine. My secretary will give you the information on your flat."

"Thank you," said MacGyver, extending his hand for a shake. His anger with Harris suddenly evaporated. The man simply did not know what to do, and it wasn't really his fault he felt uncomfortable. Mac was simply too new at this gig himself to not be shocked by the difference in how people treated him.

He turned and found the door with his cane. As he walked out into the Bullpen, a voice called him over to his right, and a pleasant, younger-sounding man pushed a bulky envelope into his hand.

"'Ere you are, Mr. MacGyver. I was told to give you these when you arrived tomorrow." He didn't sound reproachful, and Mac accepted the envelope without comment and turned to his left to head again toward the door and the stairs. He realized that he couldn't quite remember the route he'd taken to get in, and he frowned in frustration as he turned back to the secretary.

"Would you please show me down to the front door?" he asked, raising his cane slightly to communicate his dilemma.

"No problem, sir," said the secretary affably, and he rose and walked around his desk. He bumped his elbow against the back of MacGyver's free hand, and Mac grabbed on. He knows how to do this, thought Mac in surprise.

The man offered no explanation, but led Mac through the hallways and down the stairs until he was standing once again in glaring daylight on the stone pavement. Mac thanked the secretary and heard the door click as the man went back inside. It was then that Mc realized he had not gotten the man's name.

He turned and raised a hand in what he hoped was the universal "hail a cab" gesture. It worked, and a car pulled up to the curb from his right.

"Where to, Mate?" asked the cheery voice of the driver, getting out of his seat and coming to open the door for MacGyver and guide him into the back seat.

"The Royal Ballet," said MacGyver, tucking the envelope with his keys into his overnight bag. He'd figure out how to read the address and instructions later.

"Right-o," said the Cabby, and pulled out and around several corners before settling onto a busy road and crossing what sounded to Mac like a bridge.

"Is this the river?" he asked, squinting at the glare on the window, which was frustratingly all he could see.

"Aye," said the Cabby. "The Thames. Up yonder is Buckingham Palace. The Royals aren't there now though. You don't see the flag."

_ No,  _ thought MacGyver,  _ I don't _ .

"You just got here?" asked the Cabby.

"Yes," answered MacGyver.

"Going to take in the sights? Well, err, I mean look around?" persisted the Cabby.

"Starting with the Royal Ballet," confirmed MacGyver, ignoring the awkward language usage. "Have you heard of Nadia Pletskya?"

"She was the Russian dancer who was here a week ago?" asked the Cabby carelessly. "She didn't take to London, or so they say. Left in a bit of a hurry, she did. My girl was that disappointed, she was. She was going to see her dance on Saturday."

"Where was her next booking, I wonder?" asked MacGyver, trying to sound careless himself.

"Likely Paris," said the Cabby. "They all go to Paris, it seems."

Mac doubted the accuracy of this statement, but he didn't comment.

It wasn't long before the cab pulled to the curb. Mac fished some bills out of his pocket and paid the fare, and the driver once again opened Mac's door. Grabbing his bag and unfolding his cane, Mac stood on the curb facing what seemed to him to be an extremely large building.

The Cabby called, "Cheerio," in cliche London fashion, and drove away.

MacGyver turned toward the building, thinking about his plan of attack. Barging in and questioning everyone wouldn't be the most subtle approach, and might end up with him disappearing as quickly as the previous two agents did. He took stock of his assets. He had his usual pocket knife and duct tape, as well as a few more tools stashed in his bag. He thought about his cane. He listed that among his assets, both as a tool and as a disguise. If even Harris didn't take him for an agent, then any Russians watching likely wouldn't either. Suddenly, the clumsiness and incompetence that had frustrated him a minute ago seemed like a shield, keeping him safe from prying eyes. He imagined a radar, looking for British and American agents to be coming here, but the radar beam slid harmlessly over him, a blind man, with barely a flicker. At least he hoped that was the case.

"Kin I help you, Mister?" asked a voice on his right.

He turned to the young boy with his characteristic grin. "Sure can, son. I need to go to the Box Office."

"I know where that is," proclaimed the boy joyfully. "I go home this way every day."

Mac placed a hand on the lad's shoulder, and the boy led him toward the building. Mac had expected steps, but there were none as the boy pushed through a glass door into lobby and hallway. Soon they arrived at a counter where keys clicked on computers and telephones rang, while hushed voices answered.

"May I help you, sir?" asked a woman behind the counter.

Mac squeezed the boy's shoulder and whispered a quick thank-you. The boy scampered off and Mac turned to the lady behind the counter.

"One ticket, please, to see Nadia Pletskya."

"She was here last week, sir. I'm sorry."

"Last week?" asked Mac in feigned disbelief.

"Yes, sir," the attendant said with annoyance.

"All week?" asked Mac.

"She left early," said the attendant with more annoyance in her voice. Apparently the ballet star's disappearance had caused a major upset among the patrons of the Royal Opera House.

"Left early?" asked Mac in his best Dexter Fillmore voice. "Why?"

"Well, they say that she fell ill, but I saw her right before she went on Thursday night and she was fit and healthy then," said the woman.

"You saw her?" Mac asked with pretended awe.

"I spoke with her," said the attendant proudly. "We aren't generally allowed backstage, but I was sent on an errand that night and went back right before she performed. I tell you…" her voice trailed off in quiet delight. "I gave her a message, and she thanked me so sweetly. A lot of the performers have their noses up, but she didn't."

"I wonder what the message said," MacGyver remarked with careful nonchalance.

"It was nothing. Something about her new slippers arriving early at Freed. She turned a bit pale, come to think on it, but smiled and thanked me, like I said. It was a treat to get to meet her!"

"Freed?" asked Mac.

"Oh, the shop that sells ballet shoes. She must have needed a new pair right away. All the good dancers do, you know."

No, Mac did not know this.

"I stayed that night and watched her dance," went on the attendant happily. "She was absolutely brilliant. It's a pity she left early. The weekend matinees were sold out, and we had to bring in Alexandre Comstock instead, which I'm sure was a disappointment."

"Definitely," said MacGyver, hoping his agreement sounded knowledgeable.

The woman's voice suddenly sounded coy. "I finish here in about ten minutes. Would you like to find a pub?"

For the fraction of a second, Mac hesitated. But this might be too good an opportunity to pass up. "Sure," he said, flashing his 100-watt smile and looking right in her direction.

"There's a chair to your left, if you don't mind waiting," the attendant said. "I'm Carolyn, by the way. My name tag says it, but I didn't know if…"

Mac smiled again, and used his cane to find the chair. As he sat, he pondered the pieces of the puzzle, which seemed so few at this point. Two missing agents. A ballerina who left early. A message about shoes. He decided that the shoe shop probably ought to be next on the list.

"Are you ready?" asked Carolyn brightly. "I'm ducking out a few minutes early. MaryAnne won't mind," she said conspiratorially.

"Okay," said Mac, standing and gripping his bag.

"Follow me, then," said Carolyn, and let the way, not through the front doors, but toward a back hallway. Mac followed her vague form, until the light dimmed and then followed her clicking shoes as best he could. Worried about getting left behind, he crowded too closely and hit her feet with his cane.

"Sorry," he apologized. "May I take your arm?"

She agreed, only slightly awkwardly, and led him through a series of hallways that smelled like old, musty building.

"Are we going backstage?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, no, I couldn't take you backstage," she responded. I'm just going toward the car park behind the ballet school. It's the only place I could find this morning.

"The ballet school?" asked Mac.

"The Royal Ballet," said Carolyn, as if Mac was a bit daft.

"Of course," he said, lifting his chin.

At last they pushed through some doors into the brilliant sunlight, and Mac squinted against the glare. He had the beginnings of a headache forming, which made it hard to concentrate. Carolyn led him down the street and unlocked a chirping electric lock on her car. She seemed slightly nervous, and Mac wondered if she regretted asking him out to drinks.

Before he had time to wonder further about this, he heard fast-approaching footsteps, and then strong arms grabbed him from behind. Mac dropped his bag and cane and wrenched his arms free, spinning to face his attacker. As he did so, his left foot stepped off the curb and he stumbled. In that moment, the man was on him. He was shorter than Mac, but strong and wiry, and smelling strongly of e-cigarettes.

The man tried to capture Mac's arms again, but Mac twisted free and gut-punched him. The man returned in kind, and Mac doubled over, less in pain, but more to give himself a moment to think out his next move. He could hardly see the guy through the intense glare, so he reached up and grabbed a fistful of clothing, which turned out to be a leather jacket, unzipped. With his left holding firmly to the man's coat, he gave the man a right hook in the face.

Mac heard more footsteps coming toward him. The man twisted out of his coat, leaving it in MacGyver's hand, and brought both hands down hard on Mac's neck as he stood on the curb above Mac. Mac saw sparkles, and found himself gasping for breath. The man followed up with a lightning left hook, and as he did so more thugs arrives and quickly subdued Mac, binding his hands behind him and stuffing him into the car that Carolyn had opened.

He squeezed his eyes closed in frustration at being so trusting when a woman started flirting with him. 

_ This wasn't the first time it has gotten you into trouble _ , he scolded himself.

The car pulled away from the curb, with Mac laying in the back seat, his legs folded over in order to fit. One of the thugs had climbed into the passenger seat, and someone was driving. He couldn't tell if it was Carolyn or the second thug. The car drove for several minutes, while Mac worked on the rope that held his wrists.

Sooner than Mac would have guessed, it stopped and the thugs climbed out, releasing Mac's door as well. He thankfully stretched out his legs, and the men hauled him out onto his feet. On the way out, Mac clipped the top of his head on the door and winced.

"Come on, you," said one of the thugs. "Get in here, quickly." He gave Mac a push forward toward a shadowy building, and Mac found himself pitching forward as his feet caught on a stone step he hadn't seen. His hands, still tied behind him, couldn't block his fall, so his chest and right shoulder took the brunt, hitting the sharp edges of more steps. He grunted in pain.

"What, are you blind or something?" the second thug asked.

"Yes," said MacGyver, between gritted teeth.

"A blind guy?" asked the thug incredulously? "She called us to take in a f****** blind guy?"

"He fought like a devil," said the first thug. "Maybe he's pretending."

Mac rolled his eyes.

"Let's take him in and let them question him at least," said the second thug. Together, they hauled Mac to his feet, with their hands under each arm. Mac tried to find the steps with his feet as they dragged him along, but more often than not, he missed, and they cursed at him.

At the top of the steps, they opened wooden doors, and a dim, coldness spilled out. They pulled him through a silent place, and he just got a side glimpse of colored light and the sense of a large, open space. A rack of candles flickered near him, and he realized they had pulled him into the side door of a large cathedral. Almost immediately, his next step dropped out from under him, and they held him firmly as they descended some stairs, pausing to unlock a metal gate.

"The Crypt," one of them said in a tauntingly eerie tone.


	5. Chapter 5

Somewhere off to his left and high up, a shaft of light pierced the crypt, but it wasn't enough to help MacGyver in the darkness. As one thug held his upper arms, the other struggled with a metal key in the lock of a large gate that clanged and screeched as it opened. Mac's pockets were searched and his money and pocket knife were removed. He was shoved roughly inside and the gate crashed shut behind him. He took a minute to regain his balance; then he turned and reached his hands toward the iron bars. The voices and footsteps of the thugs retreated up the stone stairs and far above a door closed.

Mac's fingers searched for the lock and he bent toward it, trying in vain to peer through the darkness to make it out. In this he was unsuccessful, however, and he contented himself with getting as much information as he could from his fingers. It was a large, old fashioned metal lock, welded onto the bars of the gate. He grasped the bars in both hands and laid his forehead against their coldness as the exhaustion of the day began to catch up with him. His jet-lagged brain was insisting that the time was about 2 am, and he felt hungry and frustrated.

He took a deep breath.

Behind him, a low voice muttered something, and MacGyver whirled around, his back to the iron bars.

"Who's there?" he asked, squinting into the oppressive darkness.

The voice did not answer, and Mac started forward across the stone floor. In a few steps, he collided with something solid and about waist-high: the tombstone. It was flat on top with letters cut into the stone, as Mac discovered after a quick sweep of his hand, but he didn't take the time to read them. He used the edge of the table-like stone to circle around it. On the other side, his foot encountered something soft and he knelt. A person's leg stretched out from the tombstone toward the cold back wall, and Mac soon found that it was a man slumped against the tombstone. He wore the smooth fabric of an expensive dinner jacket or tuxedo, and his face showed several days' stubble, although Mac did not feel further.

The man was either asleep or unconscious, so Mac shook him gently. There was no response. Mac left him lying where he was and went back to exploring the cell.

There wasn't much to find. Vertical bars enclosed three sides of a space around the tombstone, and these were bolted to a fourth wall made of stone. Mac felt each bolt to see if any were loose or rusted, but they were all tight.

He crouched to feel along the bottom of the tombstone looking for any kind of tool, even a rock, but he found nothing.

The man on the floor muttered something again, and Mac went to him.

"Hey," he said. "You all right?"

The man muttered slurred words again and struggled to sit up. Mac helped him, but as soon as the man was upright, he slumped to his side again. Mac felt his cold hands. Something was clearly wrong with the man. Was he dehydrated? Hypothermic? Drugged? Mac doubted it was that, since the thugs hadn't drugged him.

He began a more thorough search of the man, starting with his shoes. These were shiny patent leather. The laces had possibilities. Next the trousers. A silk stripe up the outside of the leg told Mac that the man did indeed wear a tux. In the pocket was chewing gum wrapper. Mac sighed.

Around the man's chest was strapped a discreet holster, which was empty. In the breast pocket of the jacket he found nothing. No phone, no keys. He looked for something sewn into the front flaps of the jacket, and found a torn place. Whatever was there had been removed.

The shirt had the usual tucks that distinguished tuxedo shirts, with smooth, rounded buttons. The bow tie had been untied and hung limply.

He reached up to the man's head and finally found something useful. The man wore a wig, and underneath the wig and tight cap were several hairpins.

Mac removed several of these, and set to work on the lock. After ten minutes, he gave up in frustration. They were too small and soft to tackle the stiff, heavy lock.

The man behind the tombstone was stirring again. Mac hurried toward him and again crouched on the floor.

"My head," the man said groggily.

"What happened?" Mac asked him.

The man started with surprise, apparently not realizing until that moment that Mac was there.

"Who's there?" he asked suspiciously.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," said Mac with a wry chuckle. "Name's MacGyver."

"American?" asked the man in confusion.

"Yes," said Mac.

"It's so dark," complained the man peevishly. "You're not one of them, are you?"

"Them?" asked Mac. "The guys who threw me in here?"

"They hit me over the head," said the man, as if to himself. "Must not have wanted me to make a dash when they put you in."

He began to struggle to sit again.

"Whoa, easy," said Mac as the man swayed dizzily. This time, however, he stayed conscious.

"Must have been out all day," continued the man. "It's night, anyway."

Mac looked toward the far wall beyond the bars where the blue finger of light still slanted downward. He looked back at the man whose face and form he could not see.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked. "There's some light."

"Dammit," the man swore sincerely. "That means I can't see. Damn knock on the head."

Mac was surprised at the man's calm reaction, as if this wasn't totally unexpected, but still unwelcome. He also thought wryly of the irony that they were both blind. What were the odds?

"Uhm, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but I'm blind too," said Mac.

"They hit you over the head too?" asked the man.

"No," said Mac thankfully. "I was injured. I did rehab."

"Oh, so you know how to do this," said the man with interest. "That could be useful."

Mac snorted. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Craig."

"Nice to meet you," said Mac in a wry tone.

"Likewise," said Craig. "Wait, if you're blind, how do you know there's light?"

"A little light is about all I can see," explained Mac wearily. "Why the wig?"

"Oh, you found that, did you?" asked Craig. "I wanted to look more dashing for the ballet," he explained with amusement in his voice.

Which meant, thought Mac, that he wasn't going to tell. "The ballet?" Mac asked, suddenly alert. "Which performer?"

The man's voice was suddenly wary. "Why?"

Mac decided to risk a little to get a little. "Was it Nadia Pletskya? I think we may be after the same thing."

Craig obviously wasn't ready to trust MacGyver, because all he said was, "The only thing I'm after is getting out of this bloody cell."

"I'm with you on that," agreed Mac. "I tried a hairpin in the lock. No good."

"No, that lock is stiff and old," agreed Craig.

"You've tried?" asked Mac.

"Yes, before they knocked me out again." Craig sounded exhausted, and Mac guessed the man hadn't eaten for several days.

Mac kelt and began to explore the old iron bars. They were welded to a flat piece of iron which was bolted to the stone floor. As he neared the back wall on the left side of the cell, he discovered a musty pool of water that touched the bars on the outside of the cell. It had obviously stood there for some time, because the bottoms of several of the bars crumbled under his fingers from years of rust.

"Hey," said Mac, "I think we might have a way out!"


	6. Chapter 6

Together, the two men took hold of the thick iron bars. Luckily, the rust had crept several feet up the last two bars, making them much weaker, and together they were able to break one and bend the other outward until they had a hole large enough to squeeze through.

"Damn, I can't believe I didn't see those," commented Craig. "I looked around this whole place, but this corner was so dark I didn't think to check for rust."

"One of the few advantages to seeing with your fingers, I guess," grunted MacGyver, who was in the process of squeezing himself through the narrow hole. Once outside, he sat for a moment, leaning his head against the cold stone wall. It suddenly hit him that he'd come straight from a transatlantic flight without resting or having much of a meal. He felt dizzy and took a few deep breaths. Beside him, Craig stood shakily.

"We're both in pretty sorry shape," commented MacGyver. "We ought to find a place to lay low for a while, and find something to eat."

"I know of a place," said Craig tersely, but swore as he hit his shoulder on the corner of the crypt cell. "Finding it might pose a bit of a problem," he said wryly.

"Well, where are we now?" asked MacGyver.

"We're not far from the Royal Opera House, that I know," answered Craig. "Which churches are nearby? No, it can't be."

"What?" asked Mac in bewilderment. Not having a map of London in his head, he wasn't sure what Craig meant.

"St. Paul's itself," stated Craig flatly. "We're nearly there. Help me find the stairs before those fiends come back."

Mac grinned to himself that he was the more sighted of the two, but he found Craig's outstretched arm, and with Craig's hand on his shoulder, Mac fumbled toward the door where he'd descended not long before.

It seemed like hours of stumbling before the two found their way to the sanctuary, where they hugged the wall, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the tourists. At last, they found the entrance, and emerged into daylight, looking, Mac thought, as though they had crawled out of a sewer. London foot traffic, being accustomed to all sorts of people, took no notice.

"To the right," said Craig through his teeth. Mac felt for the stairs with his toe, wishing fervently for his cane. They descended cautiously, and he turned right, following the light gray stone facade of the building. When they heard traffic in front of them, Craig said, "Left."

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the street listening to cars whiz by, neither daring to step into the maelstrom. Finally, a light must have turned down the road, because the cars became slightly less frequent. This time, it was Craig who gritted his teeth and led the way. A few honks and a few voices calling, "Oi! Watch it Mate!" and they were across. Craig sank to his knees.

Mac heaved him to his feet as a passerby commented, "Drunk! At this hour!" and passed with a huff.

Mac rolled his eyes. The phrase Blind Drunk had been tossed at him once too many times already, and he didn't even drink.

"I could use a stiff one," Craig said with a half-smile in his voice. Mac said nothing.

"Where from here?" asked Mac.

"Left to the corner, then right. There's a pub, called Temples. Nice name, eh?" said Craig.

"Now how am I going to find that?" asked Mac in disgust.

It turned out to be easier than he had anticipated. They found the corner, then turned up the street. They hadn't gone far, when Craig bellowed, "This Temple's?"

"You've already had a pint too many, wot?" laughed a passerby. "But yeah, that's yer stop."

"Heaven bless ye," slurred Craig, playing the drunk to perfection.

He and Mac stumbled up the four stone steps to the front door. Once inside, a motherly voice accompanied hurried footsteps coming toward them.

"Mr. Craig! You look like the devil himself! What happened to you?"

Through his palm on the man's shoulder, Mac could feel Craig relax somewhat.

"I can't see, Luv," he said quietly, Just get us out of here," he said to the woman.

"Of course, of course," she said hurriedly and took his arm to lead him through the maze of patrons and tables. Mac was too tired to follow exactly what was happening, but he was dimly aware of some stairs, a hallway, a door that closed, and a chair into which he sank gratefully. He was not aware of sleeping until he awoke with a jerk. Something on a table to his right smelled divine, and nearby, presumably on a bed, Craig snored loudly.

Mac sat up, and carefully found the edge of the table with the backs of his knuckles as he had learned. He gingerly explored the tabletop and discovered a glass of water, which he gratefully drank, a bottle of beer, which he left, and a sandwich on a plate. Hardly pausing to taste it, he wolfed it down.

Sensing an urgent need, he next got up to find a bathroom. Luckily, a door to his right revealed what he needed, and he took the time to wash his hands and face in the basin as well.

By this time, the snoring had stopped and the bed creaked.

"Morning," Mac joked feebly, although the fading light told him it was closer to evening.

"Have you eaten?" asked Craig.

"I did," answered Mac shortly. "Where are we?"

"Safehouse," said Craig laconically.

"You're MI6, aren't you?" asked Mac directly. "You're one of the two missing agents."

"And I suppose that makes you CIA," said Craig a bit sardonically.

"Not exactly," said Mac. "I'm from the Phoenix Foundation. We do contract work."

"Well, that makes sense, I guess," admitted Craig.

_Yeah,_ thought Mac. The CIA would never send a blind spy.

"I was indeed trying to contact Nadia Pletskya, as was my colleague. He, I think, was shot," said Craig, his voice not entirely even.

_Did anyone ever get used to losing a friend?_ thought Mac.

I was dumped into the crypt where you found me. I'm not sure how many days it's been."

"Four," said Mac. "Five, now."

"And they sent you?" questioned Craig.

"Hey, I can see better than you can, buddy!" quipped Mac.

Craig wasn't amused. "I was not referring to your eyesight. But you are American."

"Yeah, we have an interest in meeting Miss Nadia as well," said Mac vaguely.

"Looks like we're allies for the time being, then," said Craig. "Did you learn anything?"

"She left in a hurry," said Mac. "You?"

"I was there the night she performed. I was careless. I tried to go back toward her dressing room, pretending to be a fan, but of course they found me out," Craig said.

"The lady at the ticket counter, the one who handed me over, said something about new shoes. Do you suppose there was a message in the shoes?" wondered Mac.

"Why would she give you information and then hand you over to the heavies?" asked Craig skeptically.

"Maybe she didn't know she was," answered Mac.

"It wouldn't hurt to check it out," said Craig.

It suddenly struck both of them how much sight would help in this instance. Mac was the first to answer their mutual unspoken thought. "We'll figure out a way."

"My sight is returning, I think," said Craig. "I can see light now."

"That's a good sign," was all Mac could bring himself to say. _S__ince we ought to be taking you to a hospital, not chasing after ballet shoes, _he thought. He also found himself pierced with a stab of envy. _Craig was going to see again. Soon._

He shook that thought off as old, worn out and useless. Time to get going. Craig was rummaging in a closet, swearing to himself as he tried to identify pieces of clothing by touch. Mac tucked in his shirt and straightened the collar on his leather jacket, hoping he didn't look as disheveled as he felt.

Craig was soon ready, and the two made their way out of the small room into the dark, upstairs hallway. Craig was seeing more details all the time, for this time he confidently took the lead. They headed back down the stairs and into the pub where he paused to sidle up to the bar.

"You'll do," approved the woman behind the counter, the same one who had taken them upstairs. Apparently, Craig and she exchanged some unspoken communication that Mac wasn't able to catch, because shortly Craig turned away from the bar and headed toward the door. Mac, stumbled, following, and Craig paused until Mac could place a hand on his elbow. Mac felt oddly grateful for his companion's recent experience since he knew how it felt. Not disorienting, not like at first, but just not enough damn information coming in.

Outside, twilight had deepened into early nightfall, and Mac felt grateful for the lack of light, although he could make out no details of the street around him.

"Which shop?" asked Craig, taking a deep breath of air.

"Started with an F," said Mac, trying to remember.

"Not much to go on," commented Craig. "Probably this way."

"How are your eyes?" asked Mac, as Craig led the way along the street back toward the cathedral.

"Blurry, but I can manage," said Craig shortly.

At the moment, Mac could see blackness punctuated by a single orange street lamp, so to him, blurry sounded like a big improvement.

The two walked silently along another street, for several blocks until Craig turned to his right. He stopped, squinting up at a shop sign, muttering to himself as he tried to make it out.

"C. A. P. E. Z. I. O." He slowly spelled out the letters he could barely see.

"Nope, that wasn't the name," said Mac.

Craig turned in frustration. The foot traffic was thinner now, but he found someone to stop and ask directions.

"Ballet shoes? I think I saw one down that way," said the woman, and hurried on.

Craig led the way the woman had pointed and stopped near another corner.

"Pardon, what's the name of this shop?" asked MacGyver of a passerby.

"Freed of London," said the man, obviously in a hurry.

"That's it," said Mac with enthusiasm. "That's the name of the shop the ticket taker mentioned."

"It's dark. Closed," said Craig. "We'll have to try tomorrow."

"They assigned me an apartment," said Mac, "but the guys took my bag and with it the address and key to the place."

"That's no longer viable, then," agreed Craig. "Come to my flat for tonight. We'll sort you out tomorrow."

Mac didn't know how to show his gratitude, and suddenly Craig seemed like a friend. Craig led the way to the nearest Tube entrance. Mac had heard about the new subway system, and he was impressed as the two boarded the train. Craig was still having trouble reading the signs, but they managed to get off at the right stop, and headed into a small, dead-end street crowded with houses. Craig, whose keys had been stolen by his attackers, nevertheless had a spare hidden, and it wasn't long before the two were relaxing on a leather sofa and munching leftover baked beans on toast from Craig's refrigerator.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, after a shower, a shave, and a hot breakfast, MacGyver felt much more like himself again. He sat down on the couch to wait for Craig to finish his shower.

While he sat, he began to think about the facts of the case. A few details had begun to bother him, but he hadn't had time until now to examine them.

First of all, Pete had mentioned the assignment two weeks ago before he'd started the rehab course. But Nadia had only asked for help six days ago. How had Pete known about the mission? And why hadn't he called Harris?

Then, there was another detail. Harris has said both men abducted from the theatre were American. But Pete had identified one as MI6, and Craig was obviously not an American. Why had Harris misled him on that detail? Or was Craig not who he seemed to be?

At this moment, Craig himself emerged from the shower rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

"Feels bloody good," he said to no one in particular.

"How well can you see this morning?" asked MacGyver.

"A bit blurred here and there but mostly back to normal," answered Craig, and Mac again felt the sharp twinge of jealousy. "My head still aches but it's nothing that a bit of Paracetamol can't cure."

Mac flashed what he hoped was a genuine smile. Craig flipped the switch on the television as he passed it, and a morning news program came on. Craig continued into the kitchen.

"I'll ring up Freed and find out when they open," said Craig from around the doorway. Mac had the same idea but not being able to read the telephone directory had frustrated the plan.

Instead, he listened to the newscaster on the television.

"...found last week with a gunshot wound to the chest outside the Royal Opera House. He is believed to be an American staying in London on holiday. Investigators believe he met with foul play, but evidence exists that there may have been terrorist activity and citizens are advised to use caution in the area..."

"Craig!" called Mac. "Is this your partner or someone else?"

Craig hurried back into the room to look at the screen. "My partner, poor bastard," he said grimly.

"Did you get a look at the men that did it?" queried MacGyver.

"No," admitted Craig. "But they spoke a language I didn't recognize."

"My kidnappers spoke English," mused MacGyver. "British accents."

Craig laughed. "There is no such thing as a British accent. Even the different boroughs of London have distinct accents."

"Well, they weren't American," said Mac peevishly.

"Possibly not the same guys then," said Craig. "By the way, Freed opens at ten."

The newscaster broke into the conversation. "...in other news, the ballet world was stunned this morning to learn that the world-famous Russian ballerina, Nadia Pletskya, has been taken ill and will be unable to continue her European tour. Her tour manager gave a statement informing the BBC that she will be resting in her Moscow home.

"Resting," snorted MacGyver. "We have to find her. She must be in danger."

Craig agreed. "The slippers are a slim clue," he said.

"Better than nothing," said MacGyver. "Ready to go?"

On their way to the shop, Mac stopped at a bank where Pete had promised to wire him some money and new passports. This accomplished, they continued to the Tube, and then on to the shop, Craig acting as guide. Mac, who still didn't have a cane, held lightly to Craig's elbow.

"Weren't you worried about going blind yesterday?" asked Mac as they walked.

"Of course," answered Craig, "but we train for such possibilities."

"Still, it's frightening," persisted Mac.

"Yes," agreed Craig.

They arrived at the shop, and Craig pushed open the corner door. Inside, Mac had a vague impression of racks and tables, presumably holding shoes and leotards and whatever else the shop sold. He put out one hand, and it brushed across stiff satin.

"May I help you?" asked a man with a somewhat affectedly posh accent as he came toward them. "You would be better off with an appointment so we can fit your shoes properly," he continued, somewhat distastefully, as if he was aware the two men did not move like dancers.

"We need to speak with you privately," said Craig.

"This way," said the man. "I have a fitting in thirty minutes, however," he said.

He led the way past a tall counter, which clipped Mac's elbow as he passed. He winced, but said nothing. They entered a back room, which Mac at first took to be an office, but soon decided was a fitting room. They found chairs and sat down, Craig expelling a breath as he did so. Mac wondered how much pain the man was still having.

"I'm MacGyver, and this is Craig," Mac began.

"Thomas," said the shopkeeper.

"Mr. Thomas," said MacGyver, "Last week you sold Nadia Pletskya a new pair of ballet shoes. We need to know…"

He was cut off. "Mr. MacGyver," Thomas interrupted. "What do you want with Miss Pleaskya?"

"We're trying to help her," said MacGyver.

"How do you know she needs help?" asked Thomas distrustfully.

Mac told the man about the roses.

Thomas seemed to be making up his mind about something. "Come with me," he said.

He led the way through another door in the back of the room. Craig took Mac's arm, pushing him quickly along. Mac clenched his teeth but said nothing.

Because he was in front of Craig, he stumbled when they came unexpectedly to a narrow stair, and he slammed his hands against the walls to keep from falling.

"Sorry," Craig muttered, but Mac was already most of the way down the stairs. The room at the bottom was dimmer than the upstairs had been, and he found himself listening closely to the footsteps hurrying in front of him. They stopped across the room, and a doorknob turned.

"Natya," said Thomas quietly, and opened the door wider. Craig came up beside Mac and gasped.

"This is Natalia Petrov, better known as Nadia Pletskya," said Thomas.

From a tiny room, a small, slight woman emerged and grasped Mac's outstretched hand. "So pleased to meet you," she said in careful English.

"Natalia," said MacGyver in amazement. "You're here in London? The news said you were ill and on your way to Moscow."

"Dimitry must have told that story to cover up for my disappearance," she said thoughtfully.

"Why did you ask for help?" Asked Mac.

"Is a long story. How do I know I can trust you?" she asked pragmatically.

MacGyver realized that with his bag he'd lost his credentials and had little to show her to prove himself to her.

At this moment the shop bell tinkled upstairs and Thomas excused himself. Natalia ushered the two men into the closet-like room where she had been hiding and closed the door. Mac tried again to explain to her who he was.

"My name is MacGyver," he began, pulling out his replaced passport.

At this moment, Craig began to sway, and then toppled over in a heap.

"Oh! Your friend!" cried Natalia, sitting by him. "He fainted!"

Mac also knelt by Craig and found his pulse in his neck. It felt weak but it was there. "Is he pale?" asked Mac.

"Why do you ask me?" asked Natalie, startled. "Cannot you see him?"

"No, I can't," said Mac. "He was hit on the head yesterday hard enough to temporarily lose his sight. This may be related. Check his pupils."

"Pupils?" she asked in confusion.

"His eyes," said Mac shortly.

"Why are you not look at his eyes?" asked Natalia, her English slipping in her excitement.

"I can't see," answered Mac again. "I was blinded in an explosion."

"But you said he was blind," said Natalia.

"No time now to explain. We need to get him to a hospital right away," said Mac.

"I cannot be found here," cried Natalia in terror.

"No, no. We won't let anyone find you," said Mac. "Stay here and I'll come back as soon as I can."

Craig was not a tall man, but he was heavy, and Mac grunted as he pulled the man upward into a fireman's carry. He realized that he needed to get away from Natalia before he called for help or she might be placed in even greater danger. He felt torn between helping her get to a safer place and hearing her story, and getting medical care for Craig. Frustrated, he decided on the second and opened the door to carry Craig out of the basement room.

"Is there a back door?" He whispered to Natalia.

"I do not know," she whispered back, and closed her door fearfully.

Steadying Craig with one hand, he used the other to trail the wall, trying desperately to remember where the stairs were. At last, he found them and ascended into the fitting room where he located a chair on which to deposit Craig's limp form. Luckily the fitting room was still empty.

Mac felt his way to the door of the shop and called Thomas's name softly.

"Mr. MacGyver!" said Thomas a bit too cheerily. "How is the fit on those new jazz shoes?"

"I need you to come take a look," said Mac, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

Thomas came in promptly but stopped short when he saw Craig.

"Oh dear!" he cried in dismay.

"I need to get him help, but quietly, you understand?" said MacGyver tersely.


	8. Chapter 8

"Of course," said Thomas. "Many of our customers appreciate discretion."

With surprising efficiency, Thomas summoned an ambulance and bundled Craig into it through a small back door of the shop. Again, Mac debated accompanying him, and this time decided against it in favor of rejoining Natalia.

With Thomas busy in the front of his shop, Mac found the now-familiar basement stairs and then located Natalia's little closet. He knocked gently with the backs of his knuckles. As expected, she didn't answer.

"Natalia, it's MacGyver," he called softly, and this produced a response. The latch clicked as the door was unlocked. He gingerly entered the small, musty space, not wanting to place his hands on her in an awkward location. There were dresses hanging in the space, sheathed in plastic, but she had evidently retreated, so he squeezed in and shut the door.

"You are here to help me?" she queried, her voice finally pinpointing her location. "Who are you? You do not see?"

"Name's MacGyver. I'm an American and I work for the Phoenix Foundation. We do contract work for the American government. And I can't see. A little light is all."

"They send a blind agent to help me? But what can you do?" she asked, a note of despair creeping into her voice. She sat on the floor, her thin, slight frame and dancer's poise making almost no noise as she did so.

"Now, there's where you're wrong," said Mac, sliding down the wall to seat himself also. "I found you, didn't I?"

This made her pause, and then she laughed softly. "You did, yes. If they sent you, I will have to trust; what choice do I have?"

"I hope you'll trust me," said Mac softly.

"You have a plan?" Natalia asked hopefully.

"I'm still working on that," said Mac, thinking of his confiscated cane, keys, duffel, and the compromised safe house. At least he had money, passport, and an ally. It was a start.

"I hope to not stay here longer," said Natalia with distaste, and Mac wondered if she had been here for five days since her disappearance from the Royal Opera House. He suspected she had.

"Do you need food?" he asked.

"I have been given," she answered, and Mac felt relieved at that.

"We'll need a disguise for you," he began. "You're pretty recognizable, aren't you?"

"Very," she agreed.

"And I need a new cane, knife…" he went on, more to himself than to her.

"Cane?" She asked in confusion. "You have trouble to walk?"

"White cane. Stick. Guide cane." He attempted to explain.

"Ah, for the blind," she caught on. "You need it?"

"Well, it's a handy tool, plus it helps me not look like…" he fumbled for a way to explain.

Despite the language barrier, her sharp wit picked right up on his meaning. "It would, yes. Where is such a stick purchased?"

That gave MacGyver pause. He had no idea where blind people in London went to get canes. And if he did find their outfit, he doubted they would supply Americans. He clenched his fist in frustration.

"Actually, I don't know." He said. "And for you. What are we going to use for a disguise for you? A man?"

"I am small. I would not make a good man," she said with a wry smile in her voice.

"A child?" Mac's mind was searching for possibilities.

"A son!" Natalia said with delight.

At that moment, a voice called softly and urgently outside their door. "Natya? Ty tut?"

"Ya," she answered, and Mac reached up to open the door. He recognized the shopkeeper, Thomas, who held an animated conversation with Natalia in Russian. Afterward, he hurried out, closing the door softly behind him.

"What was that about?" asked MacGyver.

"He ask if I am all right, if you help me. I tell him our plan for disguise. He goes to find the costumes," she explained.

"Oh, great!" said Mac, who had been wondering how he'd manage that himself. "I'm afraid they know I'm trying to help you," he added ruefully, thinking of the passports in the duffel he'd lost. "And they know who I am now." He pushed this disquieting thought aside.

They sat in silence for a while in the dim, chilly closet. Somewhere else in the building, water dropped from a pipe. From farther away and higher up, Mac could hear the sounds of traffic on the busy London street.

It was probably almost an hour later that Mac heard footsteps on the stairs, and felt Natalia tense beside him. They came straight for the closet, and soon they heard Thomas's voice call softly.

When they opened the door, he appeared to be in a hurry, because he said very little, handed over several bundles and a paper bag, and left again without saying anything to either of them.

Natalia carefully closed and locked the door again, then switched on a feeble overhead bulb. She handed the paper sack to Mac who discovered it contained sandwiches and colas. Lunch. He grinned.

Natalia was busy with the bundles.

"Here, these," she said, taking Mac's hand and placing two slender wands in it.

"What are these?" asked Mac in surprise.

"Canes for tap dancer. You can use?" She explained.

Mac grinned as he examined them. Two long, slender aluminum tubes, painted a bright white, with caps on each end. "Yeah, I can make these work." Setting the lunch on the floor, he began working on the two dancer's canes, working the cap of the end of each, and then rubbing the aluminum on the cement floor to sharpen it just enough to slip into the hollow tube of the other cane. He worked it in until it felt tight and stable, and stood the double-long stick up to admire his work. It was certainly better than nothing.

Meanwhile, Natalia had been sorting through the costumes Thomas had brought. Evidently he had a stock of theatre costumes somewhere in his shop, because when Mac touched the pile he felt blue jeans, leather, and t-shirts rather than the dancer's costumes he'd envisioned.

"Who is Thomas?" he asked suddenly, aware that this very British shop owner had spoken Russian, asked no questions and mysteriously had piles of blue jeans on hand for disguise purposes.

"A friend," responded Natalia seriously, with an underlying tone in her voice that warned him not to pry further.

"I have money. I can pay for this," Mac gestured vaguely to the pile on the floor at their feet.

"Good. We leave when we go. Or he will not accept," she said breathlessly, pulling on a pair of the blue jeans.

Mac suddenly realized she was unabashedly changing right in front of him. Whether it was because she was a performer, accustomed to semi-private changing rooms, because they were hiding in a closet and she had little choice, or because he couldn't actually see her, he didn't know, but he found it surprising nonetheless.

Once she was dressed, he propped his new homemade cane against the door jamb and they silently ate their lunch.

"Where do we go?" she asked, and he winced. He'd been avoiding asking himself this very question. He was supposed to take her to the safe house. But that was compromised. Craig's house likely wasn't secure and he didn't want to risk that. He didn't have a passport yet for her; Pete was working on it but it hadn't yet arrived.

"The hospital," he said. "To see Craig."

"The hospital?" she asked incredulously. "So public."

"Yeah," he agreed. "That's one thing that makes it safer. You done? Let's go."

"No, wait, my hair," she argued. "It must be cut like boy. You cut for me."

Mac laughed softly. "There's a cliché about having your hair cut by a blind man," he joked. "You sure?"

"There is no other way," she said simply.

She had a point there.

He reached out toward her and found the sides of her face, facing him, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. As he touched it, she pulled it free, and the silky strands fell over his hands. He felt himself tighten. She was beautiful. It was a shame to cut her hair.

But right now, it was more important to keep her alive. Gently, he turned her to face away from him, pulling her hair back from her face with his hands. She held up a pair of scissors that Thomas had thoughtfully included in the bundle of things, and touched the handle to his knuckles. He took them and held them in his hand, running the other around the silky strands of her gathered hair. Somehow this was very difficult.

Pulling himself together, he took pieces of her long, soft hair, and cut the short, trying to remember what the barber always did with his hair. He put two fingers against her warm scalp, her hair between them, and cut along the tops of his fingers over and over.

When he was done, the floor by their feet was slippery with piles of hair, and she ran her fingers through the short ends, ruffling it and dusting away any tiny leftover pieces.

"I can't tell how it looks," said Mac ruefully, handing back the scissors.

"I wear a hat anyway," she said. "Now, we go."

Mac left some money on the floor of the closet, and he and Natalia stepped out into the quiet basement, closing the door behind them. Mac held his cane like a pencil, vertically, not tapping it, listening intently.

As they neared the stairs, they heard voices, loud and insistent. They were men's voices, and when Natalia heard them, she clutched Mac's arm so hard he winced.

Neither of them dared say anything but both of them knew. They were seconds away from being discovered.

Together, they turned away from the stairs to the right. Mac couldn't see much in the shadowy hallway, although he remembered once going this way to find a bathroom.

The voices were growing louder now, coming toward the stairs. Mac knew hiding wasn't an option as they would search every room in the basement. They had to find a way out.

They were running now, as quietly as they could, Natalia in front, Mac's hand on her slim shoulder. She wore a canvas jacket that had a loop of cloth and a button on the shoulder so he was guessing it looked like military surplus. Interesting choice.

"It's blocked," she said in a terrified whisper at the end of the hall, her voice holding a note of panic like a trapped animal.

"Calm down; let's look around for another way out," said Mac, although his own heart was pounding, too.

She backtracked slightly, and scuttled into a room on their left that was being used for inventory storage. It was packed full of boxes and crates, stacked everywhere.

Mac stood at the door of the room and listened. The men were on the stairs now. Their voices were quiet but the scrape of a shoe told him what he needed to know.

Then, another sound made his throat constrict: the click of a pistol hammer.

Ever so gently, he pulled the door to, not latching it lest the click give them away. Then, he began to explore the contents of the nearest crates with his fingers.

Bingo.

He pulled the small machine to the floor near the door.

"What are you doing?" demanded Natalia in a frantic whisper.

"Help me find a plug-in," he requested.

"A what?" She asked furiously.

He held up the power cord. She huffed and took it, plugging it into an outlet on the wall nearby. Mac's fingers found the switch and he gently slid it through the door.

The theatre smoke machine whirred to life and in seconds the small hallway was filled with blinding, choking smoke.

"Come on," he urged, holding out his hand to Natalia as the voices in the basement grew frustrated. Footsteps retreated back up the stairs. Mac grabbed a costume hat and change of jacket before turning to look for a way out.

Together, they located the window casement which took some time to get open. They crawled out into the alley behind the shop, thankfully screened by dustbins.

Mac popped apart the pieces of his cane and tucked them into his coat. Natalia, slipping into the role of 12-year-old son walked insolently in front of him, while he kept a hand firmly on her shoulder. Nonchalantly, they exited the alley onto the street.


	9. Chapter 9

They walked several blocks before Mac felt he could let out the breath he'd been holding. So far, the only sounds around them were the subdued street sounds of a busy downtown city: feet shuffling, cars passing with a whoosh, but nothing out of the ordinary. No running or shouts. No gunshots. In front of him, Natalia's tense shoulders had relaxed somewhat as well.

Mac looked around him. He had a vague impression of tall buildings of gray stone on either side, except when the sun hit him full in the face and washed out his vision completely. These moments were rare, however, as it generally stayed behind drizzly clouds and he could see a little in the dimmer light. He couldn't pick out curbs, though, and was grateful for Natalia walking in front of him leading the way.

The rain began to fall in earnest and he turned up the collar on his coat, squinting a little into the downpour.

"We need to find the hospital," he told Natalia.

"Why?" She asked.

"Craig. My friend. I need to speak with him."

"Too dangerous for me," she protested.

Mac considered their options. They didn't have many. His safe house was compromised. He wasn't sure where even to take Natalia until he could get her a passport to fly her out of the UK. This could get tricky and he needed help, fast.

"My papers for you were stolen," he told her honestly. "I can't help you until I get more. In the meantime, we need to get you somewhere safe."

"Is nowhere safe," she said despondently.

Mac took her gently by the shoulders and turned her to face him, gazing intently into her eyes that he couldn't see. "Hey," he said softly, "it's going to be all right."

He couldn't see her reaction but as she took a deep, slow breath, her shoulders rose and fell under his hands.

"Yes," she said resolutely. "Yes."

"Brave girl," he said.

"Now, to find Craig," said Mac, more to himself than to Natalia.

"I do not know London well," she said. "I do not know where are hospitals."

"I don't either," admitted MacGyver. "A taxi driver might know."

Although he felt Natalia's shoulder tense again, she made no protest and he turned toward the curb and raised an arm to hail a passing cab. Since the street they walked along was busy, it wasn't long before one stopped.

"My friend was taken to the hospital. What's the nearest one that he probably went to?" he asked the driver.

"University College is just that way, and St. Thomas is down across the Thames. My guess is they took your friend there," replied the cabby.

"Would you take us, and wait while I ask?" Mac requested.

"Of course," answered the driver congenially, and they climbed soggily into the vinyl back seat.

Mac tried to think ahead, to formulate a plan, but his brain felt fuzzy. There were too many unknowns at the moment. He would just have to wait and see and stay on his toes.

The cab slowed, but the driver, unaware that Mac couldn't see, said nothing. It was Natalia who touched his arm and murmured, "hospital."

Thankfully, her touch prompted him to exit the taxi on the left and the momentum carried him on toward the building. Again, pretending to hold the shoulder of his "son," they found the desk and affirmed that Craig was indeed a patient there. Relieved, Mac sent an orderly outside with the cab fare and his thanks, rather than risking himself or Natalia reappearing on the street again.

They rode the elevator to the third floor. With Mac's hand still on Natalia's shoulder, each could feel the tension in the other, the waiting for something bad to happen, the fear of someone who should not be here.

They reached the third floor and Natalia led the way to a counter. She kept her cap pulled low, and walked with a slouch as if she hated the fact that she was there. Mac had to hand it to her: she was a good actor. The years of training in dance had made her aware of body language and she used it now to cover herself.

Under the too-bright fluorescent lights at the nurses' station, Mac could just make out the form of a large woman. He tried not to squint as he flashed her a friendly smile.

"Mr. Craig's room, please?"

The nurse answered in a bored voice, "Room 314. To your left."

"Thank you," answered Mac politely and turned to his left. To his surprise, Natalia wrenched herself out of his grip and flung herself across the hallway into a chair. Mac wondered if maybe she wasn't playing the rebellious teenager a little too hard. Then he had another thought that made his stomach drop. How would he find the room number without her?

He turned and shot her a glare that he couldn't tell if she received, and began making his way down the white hallway, littered with who-knew-what machines and stuff in his way.

It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't need to pretend to be sighted here, and so far they seemed to be unfollowed by their enemies and unrecognized by the public, so he pulled out the pieces of his makeshift cane and fitted them together. Running his right hand along the wall, he began feeling for raised room numbers.

Before he had located any, however, a nurse strode up to him. "Do you need help, sir?"

"Please," he said. "I'm looking for 314."

"Right this way," she said. Her heels clicked purposefully down the hall, and he followed uncertainly.

He slowed when the heels stopped and he felt his wrist seized and pulled forward. Surprised, he stepped toward where she pulled, and she placed his hand on an open door.

"314," she said shortly and clicked away.

That was weird, he thought. He would have thought a nurse would be better at leading a blind person but apparently not. Anyway, he was here.

"Craig?" He called softly, entering the dim room, holding his cane vertically as a buffer so he didn't smack into any furniture.

"Hello?" came the response from across the room, and Mac had a sudden flashback of the times when he was the one lying in the bed.

"It's MacGyver," said Mac, now having a better gauge of the size of the room by how far Craig's voice had been. "How ya doin'?"

"Conscious at the moment," joked Craig weakly, and Mac finally found the edge of the bed with his knee. He stood looking down at Craig, although he saw nothing more than shadows.

"How's the eyesight?" he asked.

"I can still see," answered Craig. "They've diagnosed concussion, and are keeping me for observation in the event I have a stroke or some such."

"Better than I expected," answered Mac, wishing he had a quip ready, but the worry that clawed at his stomach made joking difficult.

Mac shut his eyes in frustration. He couldn't speak openly with Craig, not here. Yet without eye contact, he felt so limited in unspoken communication. Think, he told himself sternly.

Craig, however, was a step ahead of him. "Bloody good of you to come, mate," he said, in the tone of a man offering a handshake. Mac took the hint and offered a hand. Craig gave it a hearty shake, and when their hands parted, in Mac's palm was a metal object wrapped in paper.

"Got you this," continued Craig in a lower voice, and bumped the back of Mac's hand with an object that apparently didn't need to be hidden. "Have a friend who works at the RNIB."

Mac didn't have the remotest idea what the acronym stood for but when he took the item, it turned out to be a folded white cane! He gave Craig a grateful, startled glance but said nothing, just unfolded the new cane, handing over the pieces of the dancer's canes to Craig to dispose of in whatever sneaky way he could.

"Well, feel better soon, mate," said Mac, jokingly copying Craig's British style.

"Ta," said Craig, and Mac turned to head toward the bright hallway light in the doorway. Again, Mac wished he could shuttle a glance to Craig, but when a nurse bustled in he realized would not have been able to do so even had he been able to see, so he contented himself with knowing Craig understood his gratitude, like he himself understood Craig's gratitude for carrying on the mission while Craig was sidelined.

Mac headed back down the hall the way he had come, wondering how he would spot Natalia. He decided not to try.

"Come on, Nate," he said brusquely in her general direction as he kept walking. To his relief, she gave something of a grunt and rose to follow.

Using his cane, he located the indentation in the wall where the elevator was, then followed the left edge to the call button. He felt a subtle jolt of impressed surprise from Natalia and he grinned inwardly to himself. Inside the elevator, he again located the buttons by touch, but couldn't remember the Braille symbols for the floor he wanted.

"And that's where I stop looking cool," he admitted with a grin after the doors closed.

"Cool?" she asked in puzzlement.

"Like I know what I'm doing," he explained. " I don't know which button."

"Oh!" She laughed suddenly as she got the humor, and he realized what a delightful person she would be under less stressful circumstances. She reached around him to press a button and he felt the electricity of her closeness. No time for that, he reminded himself. He folded his cane and put a hand again on Natalia's shoulder as the elevator doors opened.

She led him outside where the rain had passed and again the sun had come out. While the warmth felt nice, the brightness glared onto his tired eyes, and he felt the beginnings of a headache start like a tense band along his forehead. He ignored it and said in a low voice, "is there a bench? Somewhere we can talk?"

"A small park," she said, leading the way and he followed, until they reached a wooden bench under a tree.

From his pocket, Mac pulled out the paper bundle Craig had passed him in the hospital and unwrapped it. It turned out to be a key.

"Is there anything written on this?" He asked Natalia, handing her the piece of paper.

"An address," she replied, "and something else." She peered closer. "Don't trust Harris."

"What?" asked Mac in bewilderment. She read it again, but that wasn't what he meant. He heard her fine, but his head spun in confusion. Don't trust Harris? The guy was a jerk but Pete trusted him. What had Craig found out? Was Harris the mole? Or was Craig the one not to be trusted and he was throwing suspicion onto Harris? Doubtful, concluded Mac, considering Craig had been held for days and actually blinded trying to get to Natalia.

He put the information about Harris into the back of his mind to be examined later. For now, the address and key obviously provided a safe house where they could go to plan their next move.

It turned out to be a small flat in a not-so-nice easterly part of town, which to Mac's thinking was perfect. They ordered some take-out and settled down to rest and figure out what to do next. The flat had no telephone, but Mac found a red box down the street where he tried unsuccessfully to reach Pete. He realized he'd simply have to wait.

Finally, several hours later, with the rain once again pelting down on the windows of the red telephone booth, Mac got the international call through to Pete. He leaned back against the door and crossed his ankles.

"Mac! You're a hard man to reach!" Pete's voice crackled with static.

"Pete, listen, we may not have much time if we lose the connection," Mac started, and went on to outline what had happened so far, along with Craig's warning about Harris.

"You think Harris is dirty?" asked Pete.

"I don't know, Pete, just be careful, okay?" said Mac. "And I need a new plan for Natalia. I can't take her to the airport now."

"I think we'll do a boat," said Pete, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"A boat?!" asked Mac incredulously. "Like a ship? What am I going to do on a boat? I'll go crazy."

"It'll be a way nobody expects," Pete continued as if MacGyver hadn't spoken. "Can you get to Belfast?"

"In Ireland? In Northern Ireland?" Mac's voice betrayed his distaste.

"Get to Belfast. By the time you arrive there, I'll wire you your tickets and Natalia's new passport. What name is she using?" asked Pete crisply.

"Nathan MacGyver. My son," said Mac, glumly, ignoring Pete's gleeful chuckle.


	10. Chapter 10

After Mac hung up the phone, he stayed in the booth for a few minutes, thinking. Normally, he'd formulate a plan himself, keep it to himself and just get the job done. He'd find the trains connecting to the North Sea ferries, get as quickly as possible across Ireland, and there you go. Done.

Now, though, he had a lot more barriers to overcome. He couldn't read the train schedules or maps himself. At the moment that seemed like the biggest hurdle. His cohort could be recognized at any moment as a worldwide celebrity. They had (apparently) well-connected enemies following them, and someone on the inside he couldn't trust.

With his usual pragmatism, Mac examined each of these problems in turn and then put each aside to solve as needed. There was always a solution and he would find it.

The first was solving the problem of getting to the ferry from London. He had to make sure Natalia wasn't recognized. For that reason, they needed to go as quickly as possible. Mac couldn't drive, obviously, but maybe Natalia could? A car rental perhaps? That might blow her cover as a twelve-year-old kid. Plus showing her ID to rent the car could be dangerous.

No, trains would be safer.

This decision made, he left the booth and made his way back to the upstairs flat. His headache was in full bloom now, and the still-crusty healing burns on his back and hands twinged. He'd like nothing more than to lie on his stomach and sleep for a week.

Instead, he informed Natalia about Pete's plan. He expected resistance, but she didn't seem to mind. She possessed a surprising level of pragmatism herself that Mac found attractive.

He sat on the front edge of a sagging sofa and massaged his temples with his fingers. "Train tickets to the ferry, food, a map, schedules," he muttered.

"We go tonight," offered Natalia, more as a statement than a question.

"Absolutely," agreed Mac, giving her a reassuring smile.

As twilight fell, they made their way cautiously down the narrow, dim stairway of the building onto the street. Natalia wore the dingy military surplus coat and baggy blue jeans, with a cap over her shaggy boy's haircut. She'd informed Mac that her hair was light brown, and he had a better picture of her in his head now: sparkling blue eyes, delicate pixie features, a roguish smile when she wasn't worried.

Mac had the jacket he'd gotten from the dance shop, but he'd long ago lost the hat, which meant that his hair was messy from the rain.

Once in the street, he kept his cane out, but also kept a hand on Natalia, since he could see little in the dim light but the occasional glow of a street lamp. They found a row of shops where tired but friendly shopkeepers directed them toward a knapsack, snacks, duct tape and even a new Swiss Army knife, which Mac happily put into his sock instead of his pocket, much to Natalia's amusement.

"You might be glad later," he told her wryly, and she didn't disagree. They also bought a Walkman to contribute to Natalia's disguise, but the two cassette tapes she purchased were classical piano concertos and Broadway musical hits, which made him grin in turn.

Arriving at last at the train station, they discovered they actually wanted the ferry directly from Liverpool to Belfast, but found they had just missed the train through Birmingham, so had to wait for the next one. Still posing at "Nate's" father, Mac bought tickets, and they found a bench to wait.

Mac could sense Natalia's nervousness, feeling so exposed. In a way, he worried that she would inadvertently draw more attention to herself and he set a hand on her arm, trying to get her to relax.

Mac tried to find something to think about while they waited. His usual pastime of people-watching wasn't an option, and he found himself instead tuning in on conversations around himself that floated in and out as people walked by, or longer ones from people sitting nearby.

"...so I called her last night and do you know what she said? I couldn't believe it! She called me a…"

"...the vet said to give her chicken livers. No, just livers…"

"...all over the place. So bloody awful! So he said…"

"Hey! What are you looking at?" This last comment was loud, and close, and made MacGyver jump. "Yes, you! Are you staring at me, sir?"

"No, no," said Mac, holding up his folded cane in explanation. "I wasn't staring at you."

"Oh, blind. You looked like… oh, I guess your eyes do look a bit funny. I'm sorry." The man's tone changed from outraged to contrite.

"No problem," said Mac. "Name's MacGyver." He held out a hand for a shake. As the man shook it, Mac gestured to Natalia. "My boy."

"Americans?" asked the man, sitting down on the bench next to MacGyver.

"Yep," said Mac with a friendly smile.

"I'm Reginald Owens," the man said, and Mac had a mental image of a balding middle-aged man in a tweed raincoat, glasses, and wingtips.

Natalia was slumped against the tile wall buried in her Walkman, so Mac turned toward the man, glad for some conversation.

"You live in London?" he asked.

"I work here, yes," answered Owens. "I live in Reading."

Mac didn't have any idea where that was, and it occurred to him that asking questions might lead to reciprocal questioning about what they were doing in the UK. He needn't have worried.

"You been… errr… blind… long?" asked Owens with the too-hearty conversational tone that indicated someone wanted you to think they felt comfortable talking about a subject they didn't feel at all comfortable talking about.

Mac made a noncommittal shrug.

"How did it happen?" asked Owens.

Mac still couldn't get used to people asking this. It just seemed so invasive and weird.

"Accident," he replied laconically.

"Too bad," said Mr. Owens sympathetically, and Mac suddenly decided he would have preferred boredom to this conversation.

At that moment, the loudspeaker announced their train to Birmingham and Mac stood.

"Well, it was so nice to meet you, Mr. Owens," he said, hoping his relief didn't show in his voice. "That's our train, so…" he let his words trail off and turned toward Natalia, who had also stood and was fiddling with her Walkman.

"But it's my train, too!" exclaimed Owens, his voice overly bright. He was obviously beaming at MacGyver's good luck.

_Why was it this guy I picked to accidentally stare at?_ wondered Mac to himself. _He's like a clone of Theresa at the airport._

He gave a tight-lipped smile toward Owens and unfolded his cane.

"Would you like a hand, Mr. MacGyver?" asked Owens. 

Much as Mac did not want a hand from Owens, he decided that accepting help from Owens and letting Natalia trail along behind looked the most convincing, so he turned with something of a forced smile.

"Sure," he said. "If you'll let me take your elbow."

Owens seemed flustered by that, but accepted. Mac slung his knapsack casually onto one shoulder, and they headed toward the tracks.

Once aboard, Mac felt he could relax a bit. This train had compartments, and though Owens had, of course, assumed they would share, he wasn't as inclined to chat as Mac had feared. He now even seemed slightly nervous. He certainly was moody, thought MacGyver.

"You're headed to Birmingham?" asked Mac after a long silence.

"Whittington, near Lichfield," said Owens. "My sister's there. Nephew died. His funeral is tomorrow."

"So sorry," muttered MacGyver, stunned. He'd completely misread the guy. What he'd taken for fakeness was covering grief. Was it because he couldn't see his face? Body language? Mac felt rattled for having missed so much information. He leaned his head back in his seat with a frown.

The train sped through the night. It was only a little over an hour when the Birmingham stop was announced. Because of construction, they would have to switch trains here in order to continue to Liverpool, the ticket agent had said. As the train slowed, however, Mac noticed an increased feeling of tension in the air. He put a hand on Natalia's arm but she was relaxed and asleep, her head back on the seat cushion.

At that moment, he heard the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked. He froze. Owens?

Suddenly, he knew. He was right the first time. Dammit, he should have trusted his gut and not assumed he was wrong because he couldn't see.

Too late now.

"We're getting off here," said Owens, in a completely different voice.

"Whaaa?" asked MacGyver, deciding initially to play dumb. "What is going on here?"

But he'd given himself away already. Knowing the click. Reacting. Dammit. The guy had taken him off guard.

"How much can you really see?" asked Owens.

"Hey, can we just talk about this?" asked Mac, putting his hands up in a "do we really have to do this?" gesture.

The train had slowed now and jerked to a stop. Natalia woke with a gasp, comprehending their situation at a glance.

"Not talking. Go," said Owens, and shoved the pistol at Natalia. Mac had been planning to find it, take it, and knock the guy out with it, but this move kept him just far enough away so that Mac had to wait, which infuriated him. Clenching his teeth, he followed Owens into the train corridor, and as the corridor began to fill with people, grabbed a handful of his coat so he didn't lose him.

Owens moved like he was about to shove an elbow into Mac's face, but apparently thought better of it considering the crowd.

In an awkward clump, they descended the train steps onto the platform where several other pairs of hands pulled them aside, along the train cars in the dark.

Mac felt a sting in his upper arm. Terrific. Drugs, injected with a needle. Fast-acting ones too because it wasn't long before the train platform began to rock under his feet and his knees buckled. Hands caught at him as he slid into unconsciousness.

XxXxXx

When he awoke, slowly, the first thing he noticed was far too much light all around him. Even through closed eyelids. Last night's headache now pounded, ringing in his ears and causing his stomach to shake with nausea.

He lay on something wooden and hard that vibrated. A plane. Cargo plane. His shoulder and hip pressed numbly into it where he'd been deposited like a sack of potatoes. Without moving or giving away the fact that he'd awakened, he listened for more information.

His hands were tied with twine behind his back, but his mouth wasn't gagged. That must mean there was no one within earshot to call for help. His feet were tied together as well. Because his face was pressed into the boards of the floor of the plane, he could smell oil, wood, dirt and too many other smells to name. Nothing there.

He listened to the drone of the engines over the ringing in his own ears. Jet engines. A long flight.

At that moment a sound a few feet away caught his attention. A clank, then a soft snore. He was being guarded, but his guard had fallen asleep, letting his gun drop to the floor with a clunk.

Mac opened his eyes in a squint to find out if the guard would react to his movement. There was no reaction from the guard, but a wave of pain roared through MacGyver's head and he closed them again, taking a long, slow, steadying breath against the nausea.

He began silently moving his feet back and forth to find out what was around him. His tennis shoes found the curving metal wall of the fuselage directly behind him. And in front of his knees, something soft and heavy. Natalia. She was here, thank goodness. She lay still and silent, obviously also drugged and tied up.

A slightly louder snore came from across the plane where the guard sat.

First order of business was to get untied obviously. Slowly, silently, Mac bent his knees trying to reach his sock with his bound hands. He had to stop and take a few more deep breaths as wave after wave of nausea rolled over him. Once blackness descended and he wondered if he lost consciousness again.

After what seemed like hours of struggling and contorting, he managed to get his two fingers into his left sock where the knife still hid. He snapped the blade open and began working on his ropes, wishing Natalia was awake so she could do his and he could do hers.

Slowly, quietly, carefully, he sliced the ropes on his wrists, then the ones on his ankles. By this time it was obvious that the rest of the crew was at the front of the plane near the cockpit and only the guard was back with them. For that, Mac felt grateful.

Gently, he worked his way down between Natalia and the wall of the plane. Slide, wait, slide, wait. He wriggled along until he was literally spooning her and could reach her bound hands. She was beginning to stir slightly so he whispered "don't move." He felt her head nod against his chest and then she retched.

They both froze, as the guard's snore's ceased.

For a long, sickening moment, they waited, and then he started storing again. Both of them relaxed, and both took a long, slow, silent breath.

Mac reached for Natalia's slim wrists and slipped the blade of his knife under the taut cords. The sharp blade popped through them, and he handed her the knife to do the ropes on her ankles. When she handed it back, he folded it and slipped it back into his sock.


	11. Chapter 11

Mac lay for a minute, thinking and listening. He didn't dare ask Natalia to describe anything lest the sound of their whispering disturb the guard. So he would have to go on the information he could get himself.

From what he could tell, they were on the wooden floor of a cargo jet. It was loud, and the walls had a steep curve, so somewhere near the tail. From the lack of echoes, the plane was full, probably of crates strapped to each side of the plane with an aisle down the middle to keep the plane balanced. The voices he heard talking were faint, so they were at the front, near the cockpit, and likely blocked from seeing him by all the crates unless he stood in the aisle.

Their one guard sat slumped across the plane from them, most likely propped against the side of the plane with his feet out toward them. He still snored softly.

Mac lifted his head and listened to the men talking at the front of the plane. Whatever they were speaking wasn't Arabic but it sounded African. It also sounded the same as the men in the garage in California.

His head hit the wooden floor again as Mac lay back, stunned. The men who had kidnapped him from the hospital long before Pete had assigned him to extract Natalia were now after them both! What in the world was going on? And who were these guys? Where were they taking MacGyver and Natalia? What connection did they have with the Phoenix Foundation?

Pete had known about the Natalia assignment before Mac had been blinded, he was sure now. And Pete had been so insistent he himself go even though he was barely through rehab. There had to be a reason. But Pete trusted Harris. And had sent Mac to Harris. Why then did Craig say not to trust Harris? And why was Craig not dead when both agents sent to extract Natalia were reported to have died? Was it too convenient that he was there to hook up with and "help" MacGyver? Was his blindness a ruse to get Mac to trust him? He'd been awfully cavalier about it. No, Mac thought, he'd not faked how sick he'd been. But he'd not told Mac everything. The wig, for instance. But if he had been dirty, he'd had several chances to take Mac out and hadn't done it. Plus he got Mac a new cane. Which… where was it now?

Closing his eyes briefly, Mac took another long, slow breath. He didn't feel quite on the immediate edge of puking, but wasn't feeling particularly comfortable either. And all of these questions would simply have to wait.

As quietly as a cat, Mac got to his feet, feeling along the outside wall of the fuselage, and also at their feet, where a wall of crates indeed rose off the floor as he had guessed.

He stopped to gather the handfuls of twine left from their wrists and ankles, sweeping his hand along the floor to find them all. He missed one and Natalia, who was watching, picked it up and touched it to the back of his hand. He thanked her with a quick smile and carefully stepped over her still-prostrate form, running his right hand along the crates so he'd know when he might be visible to the men at the front of the plane.

The center aisle was narrow, as he hoped it would be, and he coolly stepped across the gap toward the guard, his heart pounding.

With lightning speed, his left hand found the man's chest, slumped against the far wall as he'd guessed, and without hesitating, he gave the guy a right hook as hard as he could.

Pain shot through his right hand and he winced. He'd gotten the guy's face a little higher than he meant.

He had to follow up his surprise advantage fast though. He knocked the gun aside with his foot, held his left hand over the guy's mouth to keep him from shouting, and pulled an arm behind his back to subdue him.

Once he had the guy pinned, Mac took a second to register his surprise. He was more of a boy than a man, bony to the point of fragility. And the head of hair pressed against Mac's forearm was certainly African. He could feel the waves of fear coming off of the kid, likely as much fear of his bosses as of Mac, and he felt a bit sorry for the guy.

Natalia was on her feet now, ready to help, and Mac stuck his left foot out toward her, hoping the duct tape he'd wrapped around his sock showed. He needed a piece for the guy's mouth first.

It worked. She quietly removed a strip and helped him stick it across the young guard's mouth, then together they bound his hands and feet.

With his fingers, Mac explored the gun the guard had held. It was an AK47, which was both bigger than Mac was expecting and also possibly Russian. Interesting. He took out the magazine and handed it to Natalia, then emptied the chamber and set it aside.

Now that the guard was subdued, Mac felt like he could breathe slightly easier. There was always the possibility that someone from the front of the plane would check on them, of course, but he didn't feel the need for absolute silence anymore.

He gestured Natalia to come close. "Can you tell what is in the crates?" he whispered.

She patted his forearm, which he interpreted to mean as a signal to wait. He did so, impatiently, while she crept closer to the stacks of crates. He wanted to warn her to stay out of sight of the men at the front, but stopped himself. She was neither foolish nor reckless, and she could see their sightlines better than he could.

In less than a minute she was back. "It looks like veterinarian supplies," she whispered.

"Can you get into them?" he asked.

"Some of them," came her answer.

He thought for a minute. "I got an idea," he whispered at last. "Do you see any gas masks?"

Her light footsteps receded farther toward the back of the plane, and he sat next to the trussed-up guard to think. If only his head didn't hurt so much! It still pounded, roaring in his ears and unsettling his stomach in a way that was most distracting. He pressed on his temples with his knuckles, willing himself to concentrate.

When Natalia came back and dumped two gas masks in his lap, he jumped in surprise.

"Sorry," she whispered, but her voice held a trace of, was it amusement?

"No problem," he muttered, but couldn't keep himself from smiling. If their circumstances hadn't been so dire he might have switched his creativity into retaliatory pranks, but right now, he needed to stay focused.

"See if you can find anything about large animal surgery. I'm looking for anesthetic," he said, attempting to sort out the tangle of straps in his lap. "Oh, and…" But she had gone and he let his words drop.

She poked and prodded in the crates for a while. After a few minutes, Mac rose to join her, although once she pulled him away from a spot where he guessed he was too visible.

"I need an extra-large syringe. And some tubing. And some smaller syringes," he whispered, feeling inside the crates as he spoke. He found some surgical tubing, and took it back to his spot on the floor where he'd left the gas masks.

The rest he waited for Natalia to bring. Using more duct tape from the stash around his ankle, he slowly and quietly began to disassemble the syringes. He fished his Swiss Army knife out of his sock and snapped open the sharp main knife blade. With it, he sliced off lengths of surgical tubing and began to tape the syringes back together with the surgical tubing, using his fingers to be sure each connection was sealed tightly.

Natalia was back with a liter of fluid. "Is this what you want? It reads 'Bovine Anesthetic-one litre.'"

"Perfect," whispered MacGyver, and felt for the seal, connecting it to his surgical tubing with more tape.

"What is it going to do?" she asked urgently. "Not kill them?"

"Nah," answered Mac, securing the hoses with final strips of tape. "They'll just have one heck of a headache when they wake up."

He snapped his knife shut and handed her one of the gas masks. "Put this on." He did the same and then crouched next to the aisle between the crates. Then, he began to pump the larger syringe.

As he'd hoped, the powerful pump sprayer he'd built was soon delivering a fine mist of the anesthetic into the air.

He listened intently to the conversations. Since he wasn't sure how big the space was, he may need to get closer, and he tried to balance the risk of being seen and possibly shot.

The conversations began to slow. There were a few slurred expressions of surprise and some expletives. Mac, in a crouch, crept closer toward the front of the plane, still spraying the mist, but reserving some in case the cockpit door was closed.

At last, all was quiet at the front of the plane, and he cautiously moved forward, with Natalia close beside him.

"They sleep," she said in wonder, her voice muffled by the gas mask. Mac put his hand on the shoulder of a sleeping man, slumped in his seat. His foot found another that had fallen into the aisle.

"Is the cockpit door closed?" he asked urgently.

"No, is open. The pilot sleeps and the co-pilot too," she answered. "What will you do to fly the plane?"

"Don't worry," he said cheekily. "You're going to fly it."

"I!" she gasped from behind her mask. "I do not fly planes!"

"I do," he assured her. "I'll just need a little help reading the instruments."

She punched him lightly on the shoulder in disgust. "We tie up these…?"

"Yeah, I'm sure the autopilot is set for now. Let's make sure this crowd doesn't have a party when they wake up, shall we?" he said.

"Yes, no party," she agreed, and they set to work finding enough twine, rope or tape to tie each man to his seat and tape his mouth. From their hair, it felt as though there were two white guys and five black guys. Mac wondered again where they were from and who they were working for.

They lifted the two pilots to seats and tied them as well.

"MacGyver, crates up here have medical supplies and relief worker food," she told him.

"They must have hijacked this plane, then," said Mac thoughtfully. "Where would Aid worker supplies be going?"

"Somewhere in Africa?" she suggested.

"Ethiopia," he suggested. "The famine there has devastated the country, although in '86 they were saying the worst of it was over. I think they are still sending aid."

He felt his way forward into the cockpit. "We need to figure out where they were headed with us."


	12. Chapter 12

Sitting in the left-hand seat of the cramped cockpit and fastening the seat belt harness, Mac sat in thought for a long moment.

This was obviously a hijacked plane, which he had re-hijacked from the men behind him. The problem was, would air-traffic control believe him? Could he get a message to Pete without it being intercepted? Obviously, their plan to go to the British coast had been known.

In his head, Mac ticked off his options. He couldn't bail and let the plane crash. Much as he disliked his kidnappers, he preferred not to take human lives if he could help it. He thought about the fragile boy guard who'd thrown his lot in with the kidnappers. Probably a child soldier with nowhere to go. He briefly considered trying to rescue him, but decided it posed too much risk to Natalia. Better to focus on the mission.

That left him the responsibility of landing the plane. That should be no problem with Natalia's help, but the likelihood of a military escort when he arrived was what worried him. He massaged his pounding temples again, frowning.

Natalia's voice broke into his thoughts. She had climbed into the right-hand seat and was poking around the cabin looking for useful stuff. "This map," she began, "I think it has route for us." She held a crunching piece of paper in her hands.

Mac felt a flash of frustration at his inability to see. White, searing light washed out his vision at the moment but he knew that even in lower light the thick scars over his corneas on the fronts of his eyes would obscure the information he needed so desperately on a flight plan map.

"What does it say?" he asked, hoping that Natalia, trained as a ballet dancer, was good at reading maps. He reminded himself that she was a defecting Russian spy, wanted by just about every country in the civilized world, and he felt a bit better.

The map crinkled. "Line starts in England," she said, the whisper of her finger tracing along it. "Then goes over Mediterranean…" she refolded the map and Mac clenched his jaw with impatience.

"Somalia," she finished, poking the map with finality. "They were going to land at Giohar, near Mogadishu."

Somali. That's what they had most likely been speaking. Somalis would be mercenaries though, hired guns. Working for whom?

He began to think about East Africa. Their quickest way to help was probably to contact aid workers in Ethiopia, still there after the horrific famine a few years ago. Landing in Ethiopia could be tricky, however, since the civil war raged on, especially in the north. It might be better to land in Somaliland and head to Ethiopia on foot avoiding the Derg and the freedom fighters by not getting too far north.

"Let's see, we need to figure out where we are," he said to Natalia. He briefly explained ADFs and VORs to her, asking her to find the plane's navigational computer and read its display to him. The heading, the fuel, and the fact that Natalia could only see desert out the windows made him pretty sure they were over Sudan, flying along the western border of the Red Sea.

Trying to hold every detail of the map of East Africa in his head was maddening, but Natalia thankfully tolerated his many questions with patience.

He showed her the different dials on the instrument panel: the altimeter, the airspeed indicator, the artificial horizon. She read him the information on the fuel gauge and even the time on the clock.

When he finally had all the data he needed, he told her what to keep an eye on, and they set to work making a plan.

Since he planned to land north of where their original landing was on the map, fuel shouldn't be a problem.

"Look at the map of Somaliland," he instructed her. "We need to find a city large enough to have an airfield but small enough to not have a lot of military stationed there."

"Hargeysa," she suggested. "Is on a main road but not too big. Close to Ethiopian border."

"Perfect," he agreed, and together they set to work altering the flight plan slightly.

"Do you see a call sign for this plane on the dashboard?" he asked Natalia.

"What is call sign?" she asked.

"A letter, followed by some numbers, or possibly a bunch of letters," he explained.

"Here is one: G-JTHXL," she read.

"That's it. British plane, then," he said, and felt for the radio handset to the left of his control yoke. "Read those to me a couple more times."

She did so and he tried to force his pounding head to remember them. Holding the radio microphone, he pressed the button.

"This is Golf Juliet Tango Hotel X-Ray Lima," he recited into it. "We are landing at Hargeysa airstrip at 17:45 from the northwest."

No response. Exactly as he'd hoped. An unmonitored strip. Maybe they wouldn't have a welcoming party after all.

As they made their approach, he circled the strip once so he had time to ask detailed questions and get descriptions both of the instrument panel and of the packed-earth airstrip that Natalia could see out the window in the light of the setting sun, but Mac couldn't.

His heart was pounding but he took a long, slow breath. Just like military training with the shades on, he told himself. Every pilot had to land with instruments-only. He ran his fingers over the banks of switches until he found the landing gear and flipped them, smiling as the huge machine responded.

He asked Natalia to give him a steady stream of readouts. Making sure he knew where the switches for the flaps and ailerons were, he eased back on the throttle.

Listening to the numbers Natalia read out, and feeling the plane settle under his touch, he lined up with where she'd said the runway was, eased the throttle back more. Full flaps. Steady on the horizon. Lower. Slower. Lower. Touch.

It wasn't the smoothest landing he'd ever performed. The surface of the runway wasn't smooth. But the big cargo jet was grounded; they hadn't crashed, and if they were lucky, they'd have time to get away before anyone got curious.

He turned to Natalia with a grin. "We did it!" His voice held a ring of triumph.

"We did!" she agreed, a broad smile in her voice.

Mac taxied the big plane to a stop, not quite knowing where he was driving, but thankful it was desert around the airstrip. As long as he didn't drive it into a building, he'd be okay.

He pressed the brakes as soon as he dared and began the power-down sequence.

Natalia disappeared into the tail of the plane briefly, but soon returned, holding, to Mac's surprise, his knapsack and white cane!

"I found these back there when I was looking for the gas masks," she explained to his unasked question.

Once the plane was shut down, they both left the cockpit and headed for the exit. Opening the door was no problem, but with no ground crew to supply a stairway, the door opened to nothing but a drop-off. Mac stood for a second in the doorway, thinking about the problem, and also marveling that in a few short hours they could be whisked from the cool humidity of Britain to the dry, dusty, spiciness of Somaliland.

"The safety raft," suggested Natalia quickly, and didn't wait for an answer but pulled it from an overhead storage bin. Together, they shoved the bulky raft through the door, pulling the self-inflating cord as they did so.

For Mac, jumping out the door onto the inflated life raft made his heart come up into his throat. It wasn't that far, and he knew the raft was there, but jumping into the unseen unknown from a height wasn't something he really enjoyed much. He was glad to lay on the rubbery raft for a minute, rip the gas mask off his face, and just breathe in the desert air.

Natalia lay beside him, her gas mask flung aside. From the depths of her being a laugh bubbled up: a laugh born of a minute of safety after danger, of conquering unbelievable odds.

Mac had to hand it to her. She didn't complain. She was a great teammate and she hadn't wasted time voicing any doubts she might have had when it came time to land the giant plane. Blind. What in the hell had he just done? He turned toward her, his own laughter spilling out, matching hers.

Without planning it, he was taking her chin gently in his hand and kissing her. She kissed back, gently, but they both knew they didn't have time for more.

Mac lay back on the raft for one more deep breath, and then he started to climb off on the far side, using his cane to feel how far the ground was.

The daylight faded quickly, since they were near the equator, and with the lessening light, Mac found his headache easing also. Natalia pulled a couple of granola bars out of the knapsack and they munched them as he took her arm and they walked away from the plane across the airfield and west toward Ethiopia.

[break]

They'd hiked most of the night along fairly flat gravelly terrain, covering what Mac judged to be about ten miles and hopefully nearing the border. Since the border here was a bit vague, he wasn't worried so much about that as about finding people to help them and maybe a meal.

Natalia had brought along the map from the plane and had reported that the eastern corner of Ethiopia was the Ogaden desert, which made Mac wonder if it was uninhabited.

Just after daybreak, however, as the sun rose behind their backs, they came across a few straggling goats. They were approaching the edge of a wadi where a small creek ran through the unforgiving landscape, and perched on the edge of it, Natalia whispered to Mac, were some dome-shaped tents covered with carpets.

They walked toward the camp village slowly. It was early, still. A goat bleated. Out of one of the tents, a child ran, shouting joyfully at the sunrise, his voice high and clear. Footsteps crunched on rocks as his mother followed him, and a stillness hung in the air when she saw the visitors. She called to the child, keeping her voice low, and they went back inside the tent.

More footsteps came out in rapid succession: this time the men came to see who the two strangers were. Natalia sketched a quick description: colorful robes, dark skin, heads covered. Muslim, guessed Mac, and wondered if Natalia still had her hat on.

The men greeted Mac with wary friendliness in what he supposed was Somali. He smiled at them.

"Hi," he said in greeting, waving a hand. He doubted they spoke any English, and without sight the gesture game would be difficult. "Name's MacGyver. This is Nate." He pointed to himself and Natalia.

The men gave their names as Abiyya and Obwii. They had evidently decided the visitors weren't threatening as they didn't carry guns, although they were obviously curious.

They spoke another stream of words, and Natalia muttered, "they want us come inside."

As he moved, they must have discovered Mac couldn't see, because there were more words, exclamations of surprise and dismay, and they each tried to take his arms to help guide him.

"Nope, I'm good," protested Mac, but the words were lost and he gave up and allowed himself to be gently shepherded into the dark interior of the elongated dome-shaped tent.

Whatever he was expecting, it was not this: a cool, shaded cozy space scented of spices and incense and people. They sat cross-legged on rugs and were handed small cups of strong coffee. The flavor was light and fruity and MacGyver savored the hot liquid.

Next, they were given chunks of rolled spongy sour bread and a paste of spicy lentils. Although Mac wasn't a spice lover, he was hungry and he wasn't about to be picky.

As they ate, a few small bald-headed children snuggled up to them, curiously touching their hair or the buttons on their shirts and giggling. Mac enjoyed the game; one little girl had a beaded bracelet on her wrist that his fingers found when he tried to touch her hand. In the background he could hear a woman quietly working, blowing on the charcoal brazier, bringing the food, shushing the children. He enjoyed the warmth and closeness of this family.

He supposed there were other people along the edges of the tent; he could hear a rustle here or a cough there. Older children or elderly people too shy to come forward. He hoped he wasn't taking their breakfast but there seemed to be enough to go around.

When they were done eating, Abiyye called sharply to someone in the tent and another person came to sit in the center circle.

"Fadaqua," said Abiyye, evidently making introductions.

"I am Fadaqua," said the voice of a young man. "For...two years… I go to school."

"You speak English!" said MacGyver in surprise.

"Mmm… little English... tinnish Amarinya, little Amharic, little Afaan Oromo," the young man explained slowly.

Abiyye exploded into a long string of words, to which Fadaqua gave an apologetic-sounding reply, then said in English, "He…. want to know… who you. You Aid Worker?"

"No," began Mac. Natalia shifted but Mac made a small gesture with his hand to her. She understood and waited. Fadaqua translated this to his father.

"We need to find Aid Workers. In Dirē Dáwa," explained Mac slowly.

"You go to Dirē Dáwa?" asked Fadaqua, and Mac heard Abiyye repeating the familiar name.

They spoke amongst themselves for quite a while. The woman served Mac and Natalia more cups of coffee. The goats outside bleated. Tinier children, growing restless, ran outside.

The mother spoke to one of the older children who made a teenager noise of disgust at being asked to do a chore. Mac smiled to himself. The world was really not that big after all. The teen came back with her fresh-smelling pitcher of water and gave it to her mother, then flopped back on the floor to watch the visitors, intent not to miss anything.

At last, Fadaqua said, "My father…. help you get to Dirē Dáwa. Gimeloch. Camels."

"Thank you," said MacGyver, bowing his head in gratitude.


	13. Chapter 13

The sun had climbed high overhead by the time they were ready to set out. Mac chafed at the delay, imagining trackers setting out from their plane as soon as the men inside awoke. Trackers to follow their footsteps but also possessing useful items such as jeeps and guns.

Mac hated to put this Somali family in danger but getting to Dirē Dáwa via camel with a guide would be much more expedient than wandering alone toward Dirē Dáwa, and he hoped the father and son could take care of themselves. As he was led toward his camel and explored its saddle briefly with his fingers, he noticed a rifle tucked into the baggage. Apparently, he had guessed right.

There were only two camels. The guests would ride first, although Mac hoped they would give him a turn to stretch his legs once he'd been up on the camel for a few minutes. He supposed if a person could see the horizon, it wouldn't be as hard to balance as he found it perched atop the rocking, swaying beast.

"You like it?" he tossed the teasing question across to Natalia, sitting atop the other camel. He pictured her there, tiny and ruffled in her shaggy haircut, and castoff boys' clothes. The image of the scruffy, buff-colored camel, the bright bundles on its back, the tawny gravel stretching away into the distance with the small scrubby trees along the  _ wadi _ were so vivid in his mind, he was surprised he wasn't actually seeing them. Several times lately, he'd found his imagination playing tricks like that: filling in a scene visually with so much detail it was as if he actually saw it, but then he'd bump into something and be reminded again that he wasn't really seeing anything.

"Is the only way to travel!" she replied in the same teasing tone.

After the tipping jolt of climbing out of the  _ wadi _ , his camel plodded resignedly across the stones and dirt. Mac pulled the white headscarf a little farther over his face, thankful for Abiyye's gift to block both the sun and some of the light. There wasn't much else to do. For a while, he counted the camel's footsteps but gave up somewhere in the thousands. Abiyye and Fadaqua walked beside the camels but neither seemed inclined to chat.

Mac began to think about their route. He wished again that he could see the map. He addressed the boy walking beside his camel. "Fadaqua, how far to Dirē Dáwa?"

"Mmm, three days," came the reply.

_ Oh shit. Three days _ ? Mac thought. He'd seriously underestimated the distance they had to travel. A potentially fatal mistake. He took a moment to appreciate the kindness of the family helping them, willing to leave their family and goats for six days. It wasn't going to work, however. They needed to get there before the trackers found them and it didn't seem likely at this pace.

"Can we get a bus to go there?" he asked the boy.

Fadaqua made a noise of dismay at not understanding Mac's words.

"A bus?" repeated Mac. "A bus to Dirē Dáwa?"

"Bahss?" asked Fadaqua uncertainly.

"Car? Truck? Van?" Mac floundered.

"Autobus!" supplied Fadaqua triumphantly, finally connecting the word that he knew with what Mac wanted. "Yes, autobus in Arabsiyo."

Mac called to Natalia, "Can you find Arabsiyo on the map?"

He heard shuffling of items and the crackle of paper as she drew it out of the knapsack. "Here. Arabsiyo is in Somaliya."

"Fadaqua says that's the closest town where we can catch a bus. If we try and go all the way by camel it's gonna take us three days," he said ruefully.

"Three days?" she asked incredulously. "They find us before then."

"Exactly. That's why I want to get a bus," agreed MacGyver.

"Why do we go to Dirē Dáwa?" She asked.

"It's the largest city in this part of Ethiopia and the most likely to have American and British aid workers stationed there," he replied. "It's also hopefully far enough away from the fighting that we won't get caught in that."

She seemed satisfied with his answer and busied herself with the map again. She studied it for a long moment, then folded it and replaced it in their knapsack.

Mac had to marvel at her courage. She couldn't be older than her mid-twenties, yet how much had she already seen and done in her short life? How many secrets did she know, that the governments of multiple countries pursued her? On top of this, she was an elite professional dancer, a career that took a lifetime of discipline and skill all on its own. Yet to be with her, he found her curiosity and quick wit captivating.  _ Who would she be in the future _ , he wondered. Nothing very ordinary. Well, right now, his job was to make sure she  _ had _ a future.

Fadaqua had been conversing with Abiyye, hopefully relaying the message that Mac preferred a faster travel method and to make sure their route included a stop at the bus station in Arabsiyo.

They crossed another  _ wadi _ and used the shade from the scrubby bushes to take a rest and have some food and drinks of water out of battered metal canteens. Mac had fondly hoped for the romanticism of leather water bags but evidently those were already a thing of the past. He doubted the water had been boiled but decided at the moment it was the least of their worries. Abiyye and Fadaqua rolled out their prayer mats.

As he sat sprawled under a bush, he took mental stock of himself. The scabs from the burns along his back and the backs of his hands had all been replaced with tender healing flesh and scar tissue. His hands were not too scarred but his back would definitely have a story to tell. The headache and nausea were gone. Once the knockout drugs had worked their way out of his system (in a somewhat unpleasant manner, considering the lack of plumbing in this part of the world), the headache also left. In fact, he felt better than he had for weeks, which struck him as somewhat odd.

"How are you doing?" he asked Natalia, his introspective mood carrying over to her.

"My family. I miss," she answered simply, and he was jolted by her reply. He wondered how deep her answer went. A lifetime in a ballet school, probably, then touring, now the probability that she would never see them again. He reached for her hand and hoped the unspoken understanding and sympathy he meant to convey was received.

Abiyye spoke again and Fadiqua translated, "we go."

Mac didn't think he could stand any more hours on the swaying camel. "I'll walk," he announced.

"But you not… look… see…you fall," Fadaqua struggled to find the words.

"I'll be okay," Mac insisted.

There was more discussion, but Mac held firm, hoping he wasn't violating some sacred rule of hospitality, and finally Abiyye climbed aboard the camel. There was more discussion, and finally Fadaqua set off leading Natalia's camel, and Mac followed behind, walking beside Abiyye's camel, touching the saddle. The fact that they wouldn't trust him to even hold the lead rope grated on him, but he shoved his annoyance down as well as he could. Now wasn't the time to give a lecture on disability rights.

It felt good to stretch his legs, and he fell into rhythm beside the camel although his biggest problem were the fist-sized rocks, which he quickly labeled "ankle-turners" in his mind. Every time he stepped on one and slipped sideways, he imagined Abiyye's look of dismay. He also really needed to not end up with a sprained ankle.

Luckily, they were fairly few and the miniature caravan wended along into the late afternoon.

The first time they heard a car pass in the distance, Mac felt a tingle of surprise. He hadn't realized they were near a road. He suddenly had the strange sensation of knowing that the cars on the road looking at the camels was like being on the reverse side of a safari. Like he was the elephant being photographed and talked about and ogled. It was mildly unsettling, but he pushed the thought away.

As they neared the city, the traffic on the road increased, and Mac hoped this was Arabsiyo. Night fell in its sudden way and the warm air cooled quickly as the scents of flowers and spices and a few open-pit sewers all mixed to make a distinctive but not too unpleasant smell.

The camels were stepping along the side of the road into town now, and Mac slipped sideways on a ridge of earth, clutching harder at the camel's saddle to keep his footing. The camel grunted at this and Mac felt grateful to it for not rushing off or kicking him.

Despite the darkness, the street was alive with people, walking to unknown destinations, talking, laughing, cooking with charcoal braziers along the street, selling piles of sweet-smelling fruit or spices or clanking metal items or who knows what else. Horns in the street with a hundred different voices hooted or beeped or sang or hollered. After the solitude of the desert countryside it felt like an assault on the senses, but a welcome one.

As they walked, the  _ Salat al-maghrib _ , the call to prayer began, the singer's voice drifting over the streets from the tower a few blocks away. Movement on the streets slowed, and Abiyye and Fadaqua stopped the camels and retrieved their prayer mats from the bundles. Natalia also climbed stiffly down while her camel was kneeling and she stood quietly next to Mac.

After prayers, it turned out they only needed to walk a few more blocks before Fadaqua announced, "Autobus to Dirē Dáwa. Morning."

Mac sighed. Of course, there wouldn't be another bus tonight.

"Can we do something to thank you for your hospitality?" he asked, knowing the words and the gesture would both be futile. He was right. Fadaqua expressed his confusion and dismay, but Mac had an idea.

"Is there a fruit stand near?" he asked Natalia in an undertone.

"Bananas," she answered gesturing to his left, a movement he was close enough to feel. He turned to Abiyye with what he hoped was a "wait" gesture, and turned toward the left. Natalia led the way and when he got close, his fingers brushed bunches of hanging bananas.

"Will you take British money?" he asked, doubtful that the seller spoke English, but holding out a couple of pounds anyway. The seller agreed since the amount Mac gave him was exorbitant, and gave him a large bunch of bananas, which he took back and presented to Abiyye. The gift was received with smiles and chatter and thank yous from Fadaqua. They said their goodbyes and the camels stalked off, presumably to be loaded with teff grain, spices, and lentils and then begin the plodding trek back home. Mac wondered if they would go that night. He suspected they would.

In the meantime, he and Natalia needed to figure out what to do. They were attracting far too much attention on the street, and Mac hadn't even gotten his cane out yet.

"Do any of the signs have English on them?" he asked Natalia.

"Many do," she replied.

"What do they say?" he asked.

"Some are dark," she began, "but some are bank, hair salon, happy burger, al-wadi guest house."

He snorted at "happy burger."

"They try for fast food restaurant?" she asked with a laugh.

"Looks like it. The guest house. What does it look like?" he asked.

"Not sure. It is floors over café," she answered, scanning the building.

"Let's give it a try," he said. "They may not take my money, and the bank is probably closed."

She guided him up some twisting stairs that narrowed at their center, causing him to trip.

"Sorry," she apologized.

"It's ok," he said, tight-lipped. The fact that he could safely land a Boeing 737 but not safely get up a set of uneven marble-clad stairs was a frustrating irony.

Inside, they navigated between scattered tables up to a counter. The tables were mostly full of happy, half-inebriated people, and the stereo in the corner was turned up loudly to an Arabic radio station.

"Hello," shouted Natalia as pleasantly as she could to the silent unknown behind the counter. "You have one room for tonight?"

The man grunted, and a stream of Somali, then Arabic came forth. Mac knew a few words in Arabic, but not enough to help with the transaction, so he stayed quiet, just slipping Natalia some of the ten pound notes he'd put into his pocket earlier that day.

With gestures, pointing, writing, and guesswork, she was apparently able to secure a room, because finally, Mac heard the jingle of keys. He was glad to leave the cacophony of the bar and head up the narrow stairs.

In spite of the noise and the fact that the sink made only a pathetic chuckling sound instead of yielding any water, Mac found that after walking all night and most of the day, he was certainly tired enough to sleep now. He hoped Natalia didn't mind the awkwardness of sharing only one full-sized bed. He slipped off his shoes, stretched out, fully dressed, on one side of the bed with his sock-clad feet hanging off the end, and fell immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Mac's mind swam toward wakefulness as the dawn call to prayer hung in the air outside their open window. Natalia was already up, rooting noisily through the knapsack for something.

"You want granola bar?" she asked, and Mac smiled sleepily in her direction, guessing his hair was touseled and his shirt of several days wrinkled.

"Sure," he said, and a foil-wrapped bar landed in his lap. "Thanks." He unwrapped it and began to munch its sweet stickiness, grateful for even this meager breakfast. Lacking a trash can in the room, he shoved the foil wrapper into his pocket so he could throw it away later.

Half of him wished Natalia would join him back on the bed, and the other half knew that they had lost twelve hours that the Somalis and British men from the airplane could have used to full benefit to get close to them. Owens was one of the men, Mac knew, and who knows what resources he might have at his disposal to locate them.

He hoped their decision to journey inland might at least confuse the searchers as the intuitive conclusion would be that they would head for the coast. If that assumption was enough to buy them some time, so much the better, but both Mac and Natalia knew they had better not dally.

Their room, well-furnished by Somali standards with a private bathroom, nevertheless did not keep its promises as there was no running water and no toilet seat. A bucket with water on the floor was evidently meant to be used for toilet flushing and hand washing and an inexplicable puddle on the floor attracted a cloud of mosquitoes.

They washed up for the day as well as they could and left the little room, making their way down the stairs and putting their key on the now-vacant counter.

Walking back down the twisting stairway from the café, Mac remembered to take extra care, and congratulated himself on making it to the bottom without collecting any new bruises.

"Bus is here," said Natalia urgently, and tugged him forward toward the street. A crowd stood around several minibuses. Mac pictured the blue and white square African style minibus, but in reality he couldn't tell what color they were. Natalia surprised him by again taking the lead, mingling with the people asking questions until she figured out which bus was going the direction they wanted. It was nearly full; when she led him on he had to squeeze his tall frame into the extreme back seat, and after that share it with three other Somalis and Natalia. He hugged his knees to his chest, gave Natalia a tight-lipped smile and listened to the van doors slam and the multi-layered conversations in Somali and Arabic pick up all around them. They were off.

He passed forward quite a bit more British money than one bus ride would need, hoping the amount alone would overcome the lack of correct currency. Apparently it did, because nobody said anything about it as the van lurched into the road, it's gears grinding, the wind from the open windows picking up.

Natalia, snuggled tightly against his right side and holding the knapsack on her lap, was in the mood to talk. She asked about his home and family. Although usually reticent, Mac found himself telling her about Harry, his grandfather, and about the houseboat.

"You live on a boat?" she asked in surprise.

"Mmm-hmm," he said with a slight frown, thinking of the hours spent there recently with Deborah. Hours that had been fun and playful until he'd found out she was a deadly assassin.

"What is wrong?" Natalia pressed.

"I was with this… girl. Deborah," began Mac slowly. He still hadn't processed this fully. "We dated. It was really fun. She was really fun. She really liked me… liked a lot of the things I liked." That was the difference, he thought. There were dozens of girls out there willing to hang on his arm and jump into his bed. With his good looks, he'd never had a lack of female attention. But Deborah had been… special. She seemed to really care. About the environment. About art. About him. Then come to find out it was all an act. He hadn't yet faced the fact that she had hurt him. Really, really hurt him, and not just his eyes.

"What happened?" asked Natalia, interrupting his thoughts. "Well, she planted a bomb on my boat. Tried to kill me but ended up just burning my eyes. Then they got infected and…" he gestured to his eyes, which he assumed showed the scars that formed a barrier between his sight and the outside world.

"Not a very good girlfriend," commented Natalia dryly, and Mac burst out laughing.

"No, I suppose hired assassins don't make very good girlfriends, do they?" he said. "She was good though. Very good. I had no idea. I thought she loved me." His voice trailed off. Much of the sting was gone now though. It hadn't been his fault that he'd been duped. And Deborah has been very, very skilled.

"How about you?" he asked, hoping to turn the conversation off of himself for a while. "That family that you miss. Tell me about them."

"I am number three of four sisters. I miss them and my mother. My family live in Moscow, in Russia. When I was younger my father, he work for the Soviet government. I get scholarship to ballet school to study ballet when I was three years old," she said nostalgically.

"You started when you were only three?" asked MacGyver in surprise.

"Oh no, I started working at ballet school at that time. I start at home with my sister much younger," she explained.

"Younger than three? You were just a baby!" exclaimed Mac.

"Yes, and I am very very good at ballet," she said without affectation. "I start touring with smaller companies when I was ten years old."

"Touring internationally?" asked MacGyver, clinging to the ripped vinyl of the seat in front of him to steady himself as the van found a series of potholes.

"Yes, to Soviet Union and Eastern Europe and then to Europe and then when I was fifteen, to America," she said. "Long trips. Weeks. The ballet matron was very strict and we didn't see anyone. Except…" Her voice trailed off and she shifted in her cramped seat, closely examining her fellow passengers for signs that anyone nearby spoke English or was listening in on their conversation. She seemed satisfied, because she settled back and continued.

"Except after shows a man would sometimes come backstage and ask for my shoes. Always my shoes. At first, I did not think so much about it but I hate always breaking in new shoes, da? So one day I ask myself why a man would be taking away my shoes." Her voice here trembled a little and she steadied it with firm resolve.

"It was at home. In my father's office. I find… shoes. Shoes and shoes. Torn open. So I ask him why," she went on, and her voice again shook, the voice of a little girl betrayed by her father, used by him. "His anger hurt me," she explained, and Mac didn't press for details.

"But I was angry, too. I start to listen, to watch. I sneak in and read memos. I listen to telephone. Soon I know what is being passed in shoes. Secrets. On microfilm. I know so many secrets. I know more secrets than a girl should know. But I do not say anything. Just dance and tour."

Mac put his arm around her slim shoulders and closed his eyes. The unbelievable loneliness she had endured was unimaginable.

"I became Prima Ballerina," she continued. "Headliner. I learned to save my own shoes and put on his shoes at the right time." The loathing with which she said her father's pronoun made Mac wince.

The van swerved sharply around a herd of bleating sheep. Mac braced his elbow against the metal hull of the van, unsoftened by any upholstery which had long ago been removed.

"At last I approach him. I told him I wanted to help. I told him I could be more help than just shoes," her voice again began to crack. "I began to tell him what I knew. I wanted him to love me. To let me work for him."

She took a steadying breath. "At first I thought it might work. I started on the UK tour with a new manager, a brother of my father's. He… he…" she paused, pulling herself together.

"He raped me first, then told me he had orders to kill me. That I would establish him as a manager and then he would use another dancer who did not know so much." She sat quietly for a few minutes, holding the weight of the knowledge of her father's betrayal.

"I had known such a thing might happen," she went on. "I know my father. I know the Soviet ways. So I had reached out to someone I knew and told them who I was. It was dangerous, but it was… insurance."

"Who was it?" asked Mac, although he already had a guess.

"A man named Karsoff," she said.

"I knew it," exclaimed MacGyver, remembering a certain insane asylum and a mission there to free Russian political prisoners. "And who else would he reach out to but Pete Thornton? And who else would Pete trust but me?"

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"Oh, nothing. Just that Pete had me assigned to your mission weeks before you left the flowers and I couldn't figure out how or why."

"You were coming for me?" she asked.

"Well, yeah, we thought my eyesight had recovered at that point," he explained.

"Then you went blind, but you still came?" she continued, impressed.

"Yeah, Pete was quite insistent," said Mac thoughtfully. "He cared more that he could trust me than whether I could see…" The weight of that statement hit him straight in the gut. He cared more that he could trust me than whether or not I could see. If he needed someone he could trust that badly... "There is something seriously wrong, Natalia."

"With what?" she asked.

"Something. Maybe everything," he said grimly. "But we need to find out. Would you be willing to help me? Even if it means not getting safely to America just yet?"

"Mmm, I think about it," she said, and he was reminded again just how young she was.

"It's okay," he said gently. "I'll get you safely to America first."

"But you came for me, even when you cannot see. You land plane. You… you I trust," she said simply. "I want to help you. I just am…. scared."

His arm around her shoulders tightened a little more. Did she know how absolutely beautiful she was, allowing her fragility to show like that? He thought of Deborah and the wounds she had caused and realized that once you boiled it down that's what he was too: scared.

"Hey, it's okay," he said lifting her chin with a finger and wiping the wetness of her tears from her cheeks with his thumb. "We don't have to decide right now. First, we have to get across Ethiopia." And under his gentle touch, she gave a wobbly smile.

At that moment, the van, which had stopped numerous times to let people off and allow others to pack themselves on, coughed, wheezed and died. It rolled gently to a stop. Outside, a cow mooed.

For a second, there was silence in the van, then the chatter resumed again. The doors were opened and everyone clambered out. Since this happened frequently, no one wanted to sit in a hot, cramped van if it wasn't running.

Mac felt as if his long body had been folded into a sardine can for hours. He stretched and jogged in place, trying to ease his cramped muscles. His seatmates laughed at him and talked about his tall frame, easily six inches taller than any of them.

"Not all it's cracked up to be, is it?" He joked, knowing the humor crossed the language barrier. After many hours on the bus, everyone was tired.

There was a groan of metal on metal as the hood of the van was lifted. Trailing his left hand along the body of the van, Mac made his way to the front of the vehicle to see if he could help solve the problem. The heavy odor of gasoline told him right away where to start.

"I'm guessing your fuel line is busted," he told the driver, who was also standing staring at the engine, along with several other people. Nobody appeared to speak any English, and nobody was jumping in getting their hands dirty either. He'd just have to go for it himself, Mac supposed.

Careful to avoid the hot radiator, Mac began to explore the engine setup with his fingers, looking for the fuel line. It was tricky business because of the heat, and he heard several gasps from the onlookers but nobody attempted to stop him.

Once he determined which side of the engine it was on, he felt the hose as far down as he could reach but it seemed to be intact.

"Nat?" he called. "Which side of the van is the fuel door on?"

"What is fuel door?" she called back and he snorted. Nobody in this place spoke English. "Where you put the gasoline in."

"Oh," she said, "This side. Where I am standing."

It was on his left, as he'd guessed. He lay on the warm pavement and slid under the machine. Finding the fuel line again merely by touch took a frustratingly long time, but he got it, and followed it along, looking for cracks.

Back near the fuel tank he found what he was looking for. The rubber hose had gotten old and split. Greasy gasoline had dribbled out of the split until there was none left.

He thought for a minute, then pulled out the granola bar wrapper from his pocket. Folding it carefully, he made a plug for the hole, then wrapped the hose and foil with the rest of his duct tape. It wouldn't hold forever, but hopefully it would get them to town. If they had a spare gas can.

This they had, strapped to the roof of the van. When the tank was refilled, the van started up, and with many exclamations of thanks and claps on the back, everyone showed their appreciation that their trip could continue. The driver, in particular, thanked Mac profusely over and over.

"Hey, no problem," said Mac with a grin. "I want to get there, too."

The driver closed the hood with a loud clank and everyone began piling back in. Many hands reached out to help Mac climb aboard, and they gave him the first seat with more legroom.

"Thank you," he said grinning, making sure Natalia was aboard as well. The door was closed and on they went.

They hadn’t driven five miles before Natalia clutched Mac's arm in terror.

"There is Border up ahead. Military checkpoint. Mac, I have no passport."


	15. Chapter 15

You don't even have your original passport?" asked Mac.

"I cannot show that!" she whispered in terror.

"They know you're here anyway. Remember the guys on the plane?" said Mac.

"Yes, but…" she argued fearfully.

"Still, it's better they not know we're headed inland," Mac reminded himself. "Wait, I got an idea."

He took both of their passports in his hand, and leaned forward with them, tapping the driver on the shoulder.

"Hey, you owe me a favor, right?" he began, and when the driver again began squeezing his hand and offering thanks, he knew he was on the right track.

"These passports," he said, shaking them at the driver, his friend in the passenger seat, the money taker on the running board, and anyone else who would listen. "They must not look. No look! Please! No look!" And he clapped his hands shut on each side of the stiff navy blue booklets, pointing down the road to the rapidly approaching checkpoint. Next to him, hands enclosed his own over the passports. And then another set of hands. From the front passenger seat another set of hands enclosed those: a human circle of safety and friendship. Mac felt tears start to his eyes and another set of hands and another set joined, forming a bigger and bigger barrier around the documents.

Mac felt blown away by their fast understanding, acceptance and friendship. They began to talk rapidly, making plans. He got out some money, hoping that a bribe might help, but apparently British pounds were not going to work. Instead, they pooled what cash each of them had on hand, then reluctantly accepted Mac's money in exchange. He hoped they could change it without raising suspicion in town.

The van slowed. The driver took the passports. Mac and Natalia sat quietly, hoping against hope the plan would work, whatever it was. He pulled his white headscarf closer around his face and waited.

Gravel crunched under boots and a soldier began to talk to the driver. He responded and jokes were told, resulting in laughs. There was a long pause. More talking. Then, a hand pounded twice on the van door, and the gears ground to life.

It had worked!

They were across the border quietly and had not even had to get out of the van! Mac closed his eyes and took a long, slow, steadying breath.

Around him, once the checkpoint was out of earshot, the van erupted into cheers. Everyone felt as though they'd had a hand in the victory and hands patted Mac's shoulder or head.

"Thank you!" he said over and over, smiling and nodding at the laughing, talking people all around him. The driver handed their passports back. Mac squeezed his shoulder in gratitude.

Someone passed around a bottle of warm beer and everyone took a sip. Mac declined once he figured out what it was, but he appreciated the sentiment.

They stopped for more gas and passengers changed places. Someone offered Mac a bag with some bread in it, which he gratefully accepted along with a canteen of water. Natalia shared the lunch and they settled in for the long, hot afternoon of driving.

He managed to doze a little as the bus lurched along, dust blowing in the window. At long last Natalia reported they had reached a larger city and the other passengers confirmed this was Dirē Dáwa. They had arrived.

Once on the street, Mac asked Natalia to find a bank so he could change a little of his money. Since small bank branches were everywhere, with signs in Amharic, Oromo, and English, this wasn't a problem, and he obtained some Ethiopian Birr which would make buying food and paying for taxis a lot easier.

"Are you hungry?" asked Mac, but Natalia answered in the negative. She just wanted to get somewhere safe. Mac felt exactly the same way. "Let's find a taxi," he suggested.

Holding her shoulder and standing on the curb, while she waited to find an empty taxi, he had a minute to take in their surroundings.

Behind them were the storefronts in buildings housing the bank, offices, cafés, hair salons, eye glasses shops, clothing stores, and coffee shops that Natalia had told him about earlier. In the mellow afternoon light, he could vaguely see the light brown colors of the buildings and dusty streets. Stalls and booths selling everything else sat along the street, and people walked everywhere. Along the street in front of them, traffic didn't weave in any discernible pattern as if everyone drove helter-skelter wherever they needed to go.

A taxi stopped, and Mac asked if the driver spoke English.

"Little English," he replied with a cheerful chuckle. Mac and Natalia climbed into the back seat.

"Is there an American Aid camp? Or British?"

"American Red Cross camp. Very close," answered the driver. Mac closed his eyes in relief.

"Yes, we'd like to go there, please," he instructed.

The driver swung into traffic, and Natalia found Mac's hand and gave it a squeeze. They were almost there. Had they made it? Had they really gotten away from the group of guys on the plane?

Mac found his thoughts straying back to them again. Natalia's story was another piece of the puzzle, but who was Owens? Why did he want MacGyver dead? Why did he hire Somalis? There were so many missing puzzle pieces still.

The taxi stopped.

"The American Red Cross camp," announced the driver proudly. "It's forty Birr." Mac paid him and he and Natalia climbed stiffly out of the car.

Dinnertime was approaching and the camp seemed like a well-organized bustle that Mac couldn't sort out by sound alone. He unfolded his cane.

Natalia briefly sketched the layout of a central walkway between two large white tents, one labeled "medical" and one labeled "cafeteria."

Mac shaded his eyes from the setting sun as brisk footsteps came toward them.

"Hello!" came a cheerful male American voice. "I'm Eric Wallace, on of the Red Cross workers here. Can I help you?"

"Name's MacGyver, and my boy, Nate, here." He smiled fondly toward Natalia. "We need to use your telephone. Had a bit of bad luck."

"Always happy to help a fellow US citizen out," said Eric in a friendly manner. "Need a hand?"

"Please," accepted Mac. "I'll take your arm if you don't mind."

"No problem. How do I give it?" asked Eric without any self-consciousness.

Mac put out his hand and Eric placed his elbow into it. "There we go. Where are you from?"

"Minnesota originally but I work in California now," replied MacGyver.

"Huh," said Eric, as he guided Mac toward the cafeteria tent. "Ever play hockey?"

"What Minnesota kid doesn't?" asked Mac with a grin. "How about you?"

"Nevada," replied Eric. "Then I joined the Peace Corps."

They had reached an office at the back of the tent. There wasn't going to be privacy, but it was better than nothing. Eric showed Mac the folding table that held the telephone, and left him to it. Natalia had followed silently behind but she put a quiet hand on Mac's arm as they both settled into metal folding chairs.

Mac dialed the familiar international number, his fingers searching out the square push buttons. He waited, listening to the crackle and static on the line.

Let's see, if the sun is setting here, it must be around six pm. He was pretty sure that there were eleven hours difference between Pacific Standard Time and East Africa Time. That put Pete at seven am. He wouldn't be at work yet.

Mac disconnected the line and dialed Pete's home number. Here, he had more success.

"Hello?" came Pete's voice on the line, surprisingly clearly.

"Hey, it's me," he began, but was cut off by Pete's enthusiastic voice.

"MacGyver?! Where are you? What happened?"

Using as little detail as he could lest someone in the office he couldn't see was listening in, he sketched out what had happened. Pete immediately picked up on the fact that he couldn't speak freely.

"Listen, Buddy, we are going to get you out of there," he said.

"Wait," Mac cautioned. He needed to tell Pete about his growing suspicions. Maybe it would be better to get back to the states and work from a secure home base. But he had a feeling he needed to stay close in order to figure out what was going on. "Listen, I can't talk now, but I'll call the office in a few hours, ok? I think we can stay here for a bit."

"Okay. Let me talk to the Red Cross Director there. I'll authorize the Phoenix Foundation to donate supplies to their relief efforts and also make sure they tighten security while you're there," said Pete, and MacGyver was impressed with the man's efficiency to work all that from his breakfast table.

Once the phone calls were finished, the sun had set, and the office grew dark. Eric called to them from the door of the canteen. "They're serving dinner in here. You're welcome to join us."

Dinner sounded terrific, and Natalia lost no time guiding Mac through to a table. She found him a seat across from Eric and promised to come back with a tray, for which he was grateful, since blindness made buffet lines beyond frustrating to navigate.

"Your son, huh?" asked Eric with a chuckle as she left, obviously watching her.

"Well, you know…" said Mac with a conspiratorial grin, not glancing over his shoulder. It didn't really matter if Eric and the other staff knew the truth; Pete had practically read them in anyway.

"We have showers, and I'll find you bunks in the bunkhouses," continued Eric. "Looks like you could use one."

Mac ran a hand over his stubble ruefully. "Yeah, it's been a busy few days," he agreed. A shower and a shave would sure feel nice.

Natalia was back with plastic trays of food. A lentil curry and green beans. To a vegetarian like MacGyver, Ethiopian food was heaven. He dug in happily.

"I don't want to worry you, but we might have some unwelcome company," Mac began, not sure how to explain his worries about putting the aid workers in danger because of their presence.

"Nah, we have guards. One of the biggest problems we've had here is thieves," answered Eric confidently.

"These guys aren't interested in your rice," said MacGyver dryly, thinking of the AK47.

"It's ok. The director, Jones, briefed us after he spoke with your boss. We get how serious it is," said Eric, then lapsed into teasing again. "You guys are popular."

Mac, grunted, his mouth full of food, but Natalia spoke up. "Popular for a blind guy and a kid, anyway," she said with a twinkle, and Eric laughed.

"You're really blind, or is it like a disguise?" asked Eric.

Mac snorted. "Both."

"Geez, a blind spy. Now I've seen everything," joked Eric.

When the meal was finished, Eric showed them the showers and even offered Mac clean T-shirt and jeans from his own supply.

"Thank you," said Mac, humbled by the kind gesture.

"Hey, we take care of each other out here. And yours look a bit greasy," he teased.

"Happens when you climb under a bus to fix a fuel line," Mac shrugged.

"You fix stuff?" asked Eric eagerly.

"Sometimes, why?" asked Mac.

"'Cause we have stuff all over the place here that needs fixing," said Eric. "We can keep you busy for days."

"Great," agreed Mac dryly and headed in to the showers.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two

"Thanks, Maxine," said MacGyver to Pete's secretary as he rose and headed toward the familiar office. Natalia trailed behind him, small and waif-like. Since they had arrived in LA, she had been unusually quiet, even for her and Mac wondered what was on her mind.

Running his fingers down the door, Mac found the knob and went in. "Hey, Pete," he greeted his friend warmly.

"MacGyver! It's so good to have you back!" Pete walked around his desk to give Mac a friendly hug.

"And this…" said Mac, gesturing to his companion, "... is Natalia."

"It is very nice to meet you, Mr. Thornton," she said, stepping forward to shake his hand.

"Please! Call me Pete," he admonished. "We are so happy to have you here safely."

"I am happy also to be here safe, but…" she hesitated.

"What is it?" asked Mac, turning toward her.

She put a hand on his wrist. "You asked me if I would help you. I am thinking about this a lot."

So that's what she'd been thinking about, he thought. He held up a hand. "Let's talk with Pete about it. Maybe he has something we haven't thought about."

"We talk," she agreed.

Mac used his cane to avoid the coffee table and find the sofa in the corner of Pete's office.

"Can I offer you some coffee?" asked Pete in a tone that was more than halfway teasing. He knew Mac hated coffee.

"You know I drank coffee? In a goatherder's tent in Somalia last week," commented MacGyver. "It wasn't too bad."

"We'll get you converted yet," Pete joked. "For now, there's water on the coffee table there."

"Thanks, Pete," said Mac with a chuckle as Natalia sat beside him on the sofa. Pete came to sit on the chair opposite.

"So, what's going on?" asked Pete, his voice sobering. "I know you couldn't talk over the phone."

"I'm not sure, but I need to find out," answered Mac. "Fast. You know those guys from the warehouse? That started the fire?"

"Yeah. You said they were speaking something funny," answered Pete.

"Somali. It was the same guys who drugged us on the plane, and we landed in Somalia," explained Mac.

"Somalis? But they're…"

"Hired guns. I know," went on Mac. "But then there's this too." And he prompted Natalia to tell her story to Pete.

"Soviet government!" exclaimed Pete. "Anti Gorbachev no doubt."

"Yes," agreed Natalia, "My father hates Mikhail Gorbachev. He says he is not communist."

"So it sounds…" MacGyver continued thoughtfully, "...like he is gathering a group of like-minded people in the intelligence community."

"And you were sniffing around too close. Again," said Pete wryly. "That explains the garage and trying to take you out. They could not have known yet that Natalia had reached out to Karsoff."

"No, but her coming to us with what she knows blows their whole plan wide open. It's no wonder they were desperate to get her back," said Mac.

"You keep saying 'they' but who is 'they'?" asked Natalia.

"That's what we don't know for sure yet," answered Pete. "But I'm worried someone at the Phoenix Foundation might be involved. That's why I pushed so hard for only you to go get Natalia, MacGyver."

Mac added what Craig told him about not trusting Harris.

"This goes deep. Fingers in every pie," said Pete glumly and they all sat in silence for a long minute.

"We need to find out what they're planning," said Mac finally.

"Maybe I could find out," began Natalia.

"That's really risky," said Mac, while at the same time, Pete exploded, "No! Too dangerous!"

"They're planning to kill you," Mac reminded her. "And weren't you scared last time we talked about this?"

"I am not a child," she said forcefully. "I know the danger. And yes…" here her voice shook, "I am scared."

"I don't want to use you as bait," began Pete, but MacGyver stopped him.

"What if we use me as bait? And a distraction so she can get close to them?" he asked thoughtfully. "If we bag one of them and get him to talk, he might lead us to the rest."

"Doubtful. And what if you get hurt… or killed?" said Pete.

"Now you're going all mother-hen on me?" asked Mac incredulously. "After what I've been through?"

"Sorry," Pete apologized. "You just put me through some bad days worrying about you recently!"

Now it was Mac's turn to apologize. "But what choice do we have? If we hand it off, we may hand it right to one of them. And if no one stops them…" he shivered.

No one spoke for a moment.

"We don't have a choice. You're going back, both of you. Start with Harris. He's the best lead we have," said Pete with finality.

[break]

Deplaning at Heathrow Airport, Mac breathed a sigh of relief that he had Natalia with him and didn't need to endure a repeat of the Theresa incident. Traveling alone was a bit of a gamble that way.

She was used to navigating airports, having spent a good share of her life on tour. So, she led him confidently through the long corridors, through customs and out into the murky drizzle of a foggy London afternoon.

MacGyver had weighed his options and decided to connect with Craig before approaching Harris. He knew it was a risk: Craig might be dirty too, but he had to start somewhere. And the best place to look was Craig's flat.

He didn't remember the precise address, but he hoped he could get them close enough to eventually find it.

"Tube or cab?" Natalia asked him. She was dressed as a teenager again, although neither of them expected to avoid notice for long.

"Tube," he said. "It's the way we got there the first time, so the way I'll find it again." He hopes his muscle memory was good enough.

As they sat on the swaying train, Mac found his stomach churning. They had so little to go on. And how in the world would he keep Natalia safe? They were both such recognizable targets. He tried to calm himself. One step at a time.

They switched trains, and Mac listened for the stop he remembered using with Craig. He'd kept the name of the street in his head because Craig had still been so blurry and out of it he'd had to say it several times.

Walking down the street, it had been night before. Now it was afternoon. Mac concentrated on everything around him. That piece of broken sidewalk. That length of wrought-iron fence. Those trash bins. That bush, dripping with moisture. Was that square column of brick familiar? Had he merely passed it without noticing before?

"Is this a walkway?" he asked.

"Yes," affirmed Natalia.

"Let's give this house a try," said Mac, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

They walked up the walkway and step up the one front step. Was that right? Mac couldn't remember. Mac knocked.

After a long moment, a chain was drawn back and a door clicked open but was left suspiciously only a crack.

"Yes?" came the voice of an elderly woman.

"Oh, sorry," said Mac. "I'm looking for my friend, Andrew Craig. I must have the wrong house." He tapped his cane apologetically in front of him. "Can you tell me which is his?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the woman, opening the door wider. "Yes, his house is just there. But he won't be home yet from work. Would you like to come in and have a cuppa while you wait?"

Mac's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Well, I… uh…" He turned to Natalia. "What do you think?"

"Sure," she said further surprising Mac. The woman opened the door all the way and Natalia led Mac into what felt like a cluttered front hall. They immediately turned left into an even more cluttered front room that smelled of cats. Natalia picked a weaving path and finally landed at a sofa in the middle of the room.

"Thank you so much," she said, turning to their hostess.

As she left the room to get their tea, Mac turned to Natalia with a questioning look on his face.

"She is Russian," whispered Natalia. "Maybe she will help us."

"How do you know?" asked MacGyver.

"The icons," she explained.

Their hostess returned with a tray of tea things. Mac accepted the delicate cup of tea and plate with cookies and held them awkwardly. This was definitely not his usual gig. He pictured his college hockey team all sitting around this dusty room, each holding a delicate flowered china teacup and he could hardly suppress a grin.

Natalia greeted the woman in Russian and heard an exclamation of delighted surprise and a long, flowing reply.

"MacGyver, this is Mrs. Morozov," Natalia introduced. "She has already asked me to call her Babushka, which sort of means Grandmother. She want you to also call her that."

"Nice to meet you, Babushka," said Mac, trying to keep the wariness out of his voice.

He sat back on the couch munching his cookie, then set his tea things on the table. This was going to take a while and he was obviously not going to be a part of the conversation.

He trusted Natalia; he didn't mind. But he was bored. The ebb and flow of a conversation he couldn't understand did nothing to ease his boredom. There was nothing to look at but the now-familiar whiteness that obscured everything but the brightest light or color.

He wasn't the type to be happy retreating into his head; he needed action. He fiddled with his folded cane.

All at once something was placed into his hands.

"You need something to do, da?" asked the older woman with a smile. "This was carved by my grandson. You solve it."

Mac grinned his thanks and fingered the wooden puzzle. Pieces stuck out at all angles, each interlocking in the middle with the others.

The two women went back to their rapid conversation in Russian. Mac ran his fingers over the puzzle from every angle. It seemed locked up tightly. Just like this intelligence ring, he thought. At last he found a piece that seemed to slip sideways.

It only went a little way, however, and stopped. He jiggled it back and forth, frustrated that he'd hit a road block. Then, he had an idea. Come at it sideways, he thought. He moved the first piece out as far as it would go, then began searching for a second piece that would move.

He found one at last and slid it out, the tiniest amount. After this, a third piece slid outward. Then, it was stuck. No other pieces would move. Think, he told himself. He turned the puzzle over and over in his hands, trying to see the wooden pieces in his mind.

Every puzzle has a solution, he thought. The more tricky it is, the better the puzzle. Every puzzle maker wants to fool you. He turned the pieces over again. He slid the pieces back in and started over.

At that moment, his attention was diverted by Natalia touching his arm. "Mac," she said urgently, "Craig's home. And he's not alone."


	17. Chapter 17

Craig opened his door with an exclamation of surprise. "MacGyver?! What are you doing here?"

"Sorry to drop in like this," Mac apologized. "I didn't have your number or I would have called first."

"It isn't listed in the directory," chuckled Craig. "They discourage that in my line of work."

Mac stood awkwardly for a moment, not wanting to intrude, but feeling the urgency nonetheless. Craig solved his dilemma.

"Another time, luv," he said over his shoulder. "You know how it is."

"Excuse me," a female voice said, not unpleasantly, and Mac stepped aside for her to leave. He didn't ask Craig for explanations, and Craig offered none, but invited Mac inside, offering an elbow to guide him.

"What's going on, Mate?" he asked, when the two were seated at the table with mugs of tea.

Mac told him about their unplanned side trip to East Africa. While he spoke, he listened carefully to Craig's reactions. There was no real way to know whom to trust in this game; a mistake could prove fatal. Reading a man's tells used to mean looking for a flicker of the eyes, a twitch of the skin. Now, he realized, it was listening for a shifting of the weight, an intake of breath.

As far as he could tell, Craig's surprise was genuine; his concern real. He didn't know about the Somali mercenaries? Was he trustworthy? There was no way to truly be sure, but Mac felt like Craig seemed solid.

"You wrote on your note not to trust Harris," said Mac. "What did you mean? What happened?"

Craig sat thoughtfully silent for a long minute, as if weighing his words carefully. "Nothing happened, really, and maybe I'm being foolish. It's more of a feeling…"

"Go on," Mac prompted.

"Well, when I went to meet Nadia at the theatre and I was captured," Craig explained slowly, "I went in disguise. That's why I wore a wig. I went in at a different time than the original plan called for, but I told Harris."

Mac sat forward in his chair.

Craig continued, "I went in with my partner, but they knew exactly who we were and when we were coming."

He didn't finish the story. He didn't need to. They both knew what had happened.

"There's something else that's bothering me," said Mac. "Pete told me your partner was CIA. And the news report said an American was killed. But Harris made a point to tell me both of you were British and both of you were dead."

"For some reason, they didn't kill me; just hit me over the head too damn hard," said Craig wryly.

"Why would he change the story?" pondered Mac to himself, but then asked, "How is your head by the way?"

"Still concussed," said Craig. "Vision blurs from time to time and I get the spins. But it should heal up in a month or two."

"Ouch," said Mac in laconic sympathy. His fingers found the wooden puzzle in his pocket and he pulled it out, turning it in his hands on the tabletop.

"What's that?" asked Craig.

"It's a puzzle, a brain teaser, that your next-door neighbor kindly gave to me. Said her grandson made it. But it got me thinking," explained Mac.

"Yes?" prompted Craig.

"Well, I'm beginning to wonder if there is something big going on. Something all interconnected within the intelligence community. Harris might be one piece." Mac slid the first piece out a fraction of an inch.

"Then, the man passing information in Natalia's shoes might be a piece." He slid the second piece out slightly.

"Natalia's father might be a piece. The Phoenix Foundation might have a piece." His fingers found the third piece.

"Here's where I got stuck before. But the key to the puzzle, and maybe to the ring, is to go backward." He felt for the first piece again and slid it back inward.

As he did so, all the pieces in his hand came loose and fell onto the tabletop. He touched the individual pieces, each with different key-like notches in the center.

"We find the key, we find the whole thing you mean," interpreted Craig. "Harris may not be the key. He may not even be involved."

"True," acknowledged Mac. "And we have to find out for sure what they want. Natalia is cooking up some kind of plan to gather more info for us. That will be a start. In the meantime, I have to figure out how this thing goes back together." He finished with a laugh.

XxXxXx

The girl was good, MacGyver had to admit. While he had been filling in Craig on recent events, and his guesses about the Soviet intelligent ring, Natalia had concocted a plan to start actually proving it.

"I have plan to try," she'd said without preamble when she had come next door looking for Mac. "Can you help me with disguise?"

"What sort of disguise? What are you planning to do?" asked Craig in alarm.

Mac grinned to himself. Natalia was a force to be reckoned with, as he had already discovered, and it was fun to was Craig grapple with her for the first time.

"I go to Paris where the Russian Ballet performs now," she explained. "Baba will go with me."

"Baba?" asked Craig.

"Your next-door neighbor has evidently been adopted," explained Mac with dry amusement.

"Ah," said Craig with dawning comprehension. "Go on."

"Baba and I will go, but he must not know me. Petrov, my manager, will be using another dancer, you see? But still the shoes. I will find his special shoes and we will see what secrets they contain," she explained.

Both Mac and Craig sat, stunned.

"What do they pass in the shoes?" asked Mac at last.

"Microfilm," she answered. "Documents of plans. Lists. People."

"Will they know you've switched shoes?" asked a concerned Craig.

"I know how they sew the films into the shoes. We can make…" she searched for the English word.

"A dummy pair," supplied MacGyver. "Brilliant."

"But Petrov must not know who I am. You can help me do this?" she asked anxiously.

"Not just Petrov. Harris can't know either," said Craig, almost to himself. Then, to Natalia, he said, "I can help you with a disguise, yes. What exactly are you thinking?"

Natalia hesitated. "I and Baba must to go backstage in the theatre, find right dancer, switch her shoes and not be noticed. We must be invisible people. The cleaning people, maybe."

Craig agreed. "I'll discreetly find out what the staff at the Palais Garnier wear."

Mac volunteered to go back to Freed to get a pair of shoes from Thomas. He was curious about the guy anyway and was glad for a chance to talk with him again. He had Natalia write the instructions for the shoes on a piece of paper which he shoved into his pocket.

If he hurried, he could make it to the shop before it closed, so Mac shrugged his jacket on, and tipped the wooden puzzle pieces back into the side pocket. Craig, busy on the telephone, probably would have given a wave if Mac could see it, but he didn't worry about that now. He bid goodbye to Natalia in Russian, one of three words he now knew, and headed for the door.

Once outside, he felt a sudden uneasiness. He couldn't define it, but the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. As if he was being watched.

He closed his eyes briefly and took a steadying breath, then swept the tip of his cane in an arc to find the walkway that led to the street.

There was no way to tell who was watching and experience was fast teaching him that the best thing to do was to get on with whatever needed doing. But he couldn't shake the little shiver of apprehension that ran down his spine as he swung right to follow the sidewalk along the street and out onto the busier road where the Underground station was.

He strained to listen for following footsteps. There were people around, walking. Were they following him? He turned right at the street corner, using the sound of passing traffic to know he was heading toward the busier section.

His cane swept an arc in front of him, making sure his path was clear. Its tip told him if a trash bin sat carelessly in his way or if the sidewalk sloped downward. His ears told him he walked a straight path, parallel to the cars rushing along beside him. He listened for the crowd of people and the feet on the stairs descending to the underground station, grinning to himself with satisfaction when he heard it easily.

He joined the press of people on the stairs, marveling that thus far no one had grabbed him, trying to be helpful.

Well, and no one had grabbed him. Shoved him in a trunk. He wondered if they were there, biding their time, waiting for an opportunity.

He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. He was getting paranoid.

Once in the Underground, he asked a passerby to help him find the ticket booth and purchase a pass. The teenager obliged, asking Mac to hold his skateboard.

"There he is!" called a voice from Mac's left, and hands grabbed for his arms.

Mac whirled and shoved the skateboard at his attacker, throwing him off balance with it. Then he turned and ran toward the echoing opening of the subway tunnel.

His cane found stairs and ankles. Cries of, "Watch it, Mate!" caused him to slow a bit. He slipped off his jacket, hoping the change of color might throw them off a bit, and hurried down the stairs as fast as he dared through the crowds of people.

He reached the platform just as the doors opened and let the tide of afternoon commuters sweep him onto the train. Once inside, he moved along the inside of the car away from the door, not sure if his pursuers were behind him.

Shouts echoed across the platform as the doors closed and he smiled to himself in relief as the train began to pick up speed. He'd done it.

Now to figure out his route and stop without them finding him first.

When Mac switched trains in the center of London, all was quiet except for the press of commuters, and he breathed another long sigh. On another Tube line, he was even harder to trace, although he felt like the cane made him conspicuous and he folded it while he rode, listening to the stops tick by.

A kindly older gentleman gave him directions to Freed from the station, and he set off through the spring drizzle, hoping he wasn't too late and hoping Freed closed at 5:30 instead of 5:00.

"Excuse me, can you show me which shop says Freed?" he asked a pedestrian.

The hurried man said brusquely, "you're looking at it, Mate," without glancing up.

Mac grinned wryly and entered the shop. His cane encountered the familiar racks and rows of clothing, and he paused. Running into a metal rack didn't interest him in the slightest.

"Mr. MacGyver! So good to see you again!" The smooth voice of Thomas came toward him without the slightest trace of surprise, as if scruffy jacketed men came in here all the time to buy ballet shoes. Mac had to hand it to the guy. He had the professionalism thing down to an art form.

"Thomas!" Mac said warmly, extending a hand. Thomas shook it. "I have an order for you from my client."

"Of course, of course," agreed Thomas amiably. "May I guide you to a seat?"

"Please," agreed MacGyver, taking the paper out of his pocket and handing it to Thomas. He took Thomas's elbow and followed him to a tweed chair against a wall.

"May I serve you tea?" asked Thomas politely.

"Thanks, I'll pass," declined Mac, thinking if he had any more tea he'd choke.

Thomas left him in the chair and went to get the shoes. He returned shortly with a box in a paper shopping bag.

"May I put that on your client's bill?" he asked.

"Of course," answered Mac, although he had no idea what that meant. He accepted the bag and stood, unfolding his cane. "Thank you very much," he said.

"Yes, sir," said Thomas, not offering guidance out of the store. Since he'd been guided in, Mac wasn't entirely sure of the route out, and he mentally kicked himself for not paying more attention. It would be easy to get stuck in a back corner of the shop and look like a total idiot rather than a suave, competent professional agent.

Once again, his pragmatism and sense of humor came to his rescue. The fact remained that he was a professional, whether he took the scenic route out of the store or not, and he made the best guess he could regarding the location of the door.

Turning left, he let his cane find the racks and shelves, and wove his way between them until he found a wall. He wasn't sure whether the door was on his right or his left, and Thomas must have sensed his dilemma.

"Mr. MacGyver, do you require assistance?" he asked.

Swallowing his irritation with his own lack of navigational skill, Mac said, "if you could point me to the door, please."

"No problem, Sir," said Thomas coolly, and pulled Mac to his right.

Mac found being pulled added to his annoyance so that by the time he found the door and exited to the street he was steaming.

He stopped just outside the shop, however, and have himself a mental shake. He couldn't afford to be distracted by petty annoyances. He had a job to do. He wondered how Craig and Natalia were getting along with her disguise and how soon she could go to Paris.

He would worry, he realized. He wished he could go with her to Paris. Once again he fingered the wooden puzzle pieces in his coat pocket that needed reassembling.

Without much trouble he retraced his steps to the Tube station, bought his ticket and boarded the train, finding a seat this time since the crowd had thinned somewhat. The smells of food vendors in the station faded as the train pulled away and he pulled the wooden puzzle pieces out and examined each one with his fingertips, wishing he could see them all at once.

He began to lay them across one another so the notches fit together, sliding another piece into the bunch and another. As the formation became more complex, he found himself thinking about the people he was looking for.

There was Natalia's father, a high-ranking official in the Soviet government. Politically, he was likely anti-Western. But that wasn't enough to make terror threats. Was it? Mac's fingers studied another wooden piece of the puzzle.

Natalia's manager, Petrov. He seemed to be the courier in the operation. How much did he know?

Owens. He'd kidnapped MacGyver and Natalia, but to what end? What was his role? Did he control the Somali mercenaries? Had he been in California trying to take MacGyver out of the picture weeks ago, and if so, why?

Harris. Was he involved? How were they going to find out?

The shadowy unknown mole in the CIA or the Phoenix Foundation. The reason Pete seemed so twitchy and felt like he could only trust Mac himself.

Were there more people? There were more wooden puzzle pieces in Mac's palm, but it occurred to him as he slid a piece in sideways that fate placed people side-by-side that didn't necessarily belong there. Maybe some of the puzzle pieces were actually represented by Natalia, Pete and even himself.

He shook his head in frustration and shoved all of the wooden pieces back into his pocket. Right now he had one simple mission: to get the shoes back to Natalia in one piece, and with the Tube being watched, it wasn't going to be that way.

He opted to get off the subway downtown and hail a cab to take him directly to Craig's door, even requesting that the cabby guide him to the door itself. He decided that playing it safe would be the most expedient and practical solution in this case. He tipped the cabby, much to the man's amusement, and went back into Craig's front hallway.

"Hello?" he called.

"Oi, Mate," called Craig from the kitchen. "Back here!"

Mac made his way down the hall and into the kitchen where Natalia exploded into giggles.

"What is it?" asked Mac in confusion.

"You should see her disguise," laughed Craig. "Some of my better work if I do say so."

Natalia laughed harder. "I am old man," she said. "Older than Babushka, and many of my teeth seem to be missing."

MacGyver found the picture of Natalia as a wizened little old man endearing. He imagined the wrinkles, baggy clothes and bald cap with wispy hair that they'd added, and grinned at their theatrics until he thought about just how dangerous a game they were playing.

"Sorry to be the wet blanket here," he began, "but does Mrs. Morosov understand the risks? Does she know what she agreed to help you with?"

Craig and Natalia sobered. Neither spoke for a minute.

Finally, Natalia said softly, "She is Russian. She knows."

All three sat quietly, each with their own thoughts.

Then MacGyver said with finality, "I'm coming too."


	18. Chapter 18

A river of chattering people flowed out of the door of the Palais Garnier after the last performance of the Russian Ballet, starring the prima ballerina, Ludmila Lopukhova. Her own romance had made headlines and talk swirled around MacGyver as he made his way slowly and steadily against the tide of people toward the doors. 

Once inside, he listened carefully to the flow of conversation, determining that the staircase lay to his left, so he made his way casually along the wall to his right.

"Puis-je vous aider Monsieur?" asked a voice at his elbow, causing him to jump slightly. 

He turned toward the usher or guard, holding up his cane apologetically.

"Just looking for the men's room," he explained.

"This way, Monsieur," the man said frostily, pulling his elbow. He stopped and took the man's arm instead, and followed him to the restroom, where he entered the brightly lit, echoing room. Finding a stall, he hurriedly donned the janitor's coveralls he'd brought, hidden under the back of his tuxedo jacket. He folded his cane and stashed it in the inside pocket of the coveralls and put on the baseball cap rolled in the other pocket.

Once he was sure the traffic in the men's room had completely cycled through, he flushed the toilet and exited the stall, listening hard for the location of the sinks. Avoiding running into other theatre patrons, he found the end of the row of sinks and just beyond that the door to the janitor's closet, which he carefully opened with the lock pick in his pocket, shielding his action with his hand.

Gently, so as not to knock anything over, he swept a hand along the wall inside until he located a dust mop. Then, he waited. At last, the crowd thinned and he took the mop, carefully closing the door behind him. Outside the restroom, he went over again in his mind the blueprints of the theatre that he and Craig had studied together.

Running the dust mop along ahead of himself, he trailed the wall with it until he found the dark back corner of the lobby and the service stairs. It took a little longer to pick this lock, and his heart hammered, waiting any minute to be discovered, but all was quiet. 

He opened the door and ran the dust mop ahead of him along the concrete landing, looking for the stairs. He found the corner instead and reversed direction, the wide mop sweeping along ahead of him and finally bumping down the stairs.

At this moment, footsteps descended toward him from above. He froze. He backed against the wall, holding his mop out of the way.

"Bonne performance se soir, oui?" asked the man casually as he passed MacGyver. Mac gave a noncommital shrug. The man continued on down the stairs and Mac closed his eyes and let out the breath he was holding. He followed the man down the stairs, letting the dust mop feel his way in front of him as he went.

Once in the basement level, he entered a long hallway, dimly lit with occasional bulbs. Running his right hand along the wall, Mac began to count doorways. On the third one, he stopped and tried the knob.

Locked. This time the old-fashioned knob needed a skeleton key, and he tried several from the ring in his pocket before he found one that fit. The disused lock protested rustily, but he forced it to open and slipped into the quiet room. Once inside, he re-locked the door and settled down to wait.

Four slow hours crawled by before the dim lights he could barely see beyond the glass window of the door went out and he was left in total darkness. The theatre was shut down for the night. Mac's braille watch read 5:15 am.

Opening the door, Mac and his dust mop retraced their steps to the stairs, this time to the next level up where the underground dressing rooms were.

No light came into the hallway, and no sound met Mac's ears. The theater had a security system: he and Craig had researched this. But it began on the street level and was motion activated. Although there were sensors on this level, they needed light to operate. Even the beam of a penlight would trigger them. Mac didn't need a penlight.

The floors here were marble rather than concrete. Again, Mac counted doors, but this time on the left side of the corridor. Running his dust mop along to detect obstacles, he found the fifth door on the left and felt for the number on it. Dressing room two.

Carefully, quietly, he unlocked and opened the door. The basement room thankfully was still pitch black. Mac blessed his scrap of eyesight, poor as it was, that allowed him to determine that this was the case.

He crept inside, left the mop leaning against the door jamb, and followed the wall to his left. He found a chair and skirted it, then the dressing table. With a feather touch, he ran his hands over the top of the dressing table. Makeup. Hair things.

Continuing, he hit his head on a clothes rack, the visor of his cap saving him a nasty hit in the eye. He ran his hands along the rack, noting the several outfits hanging there. Then, at last, there were two pairs of ballet slippers hanging by their ribbons from the rack. Both were stiff toe shoes lined with cardboard as Natalia had shown him.

He ran his hands over the shoes, looking for the telltale stitching that she had instructed him to find. One pair had it, and he stuffed them down the front of his overalls, switching them with the shoes he carried with him, hanging them neatly on the rack in their place.

His watch now read 5:35 am. He needed to get to the upstairs hiding place before sunrise at 6:45.

He reversed direction out of the dressing room, running his right hand along the edge of the dressing table, then finding the chair, then locating the dust mop again. With everything back in its place, he locked the door and walked deliberately back down the hallway toward the stairs.

He climbed one flight, then listened at the door to the lobby. All was quiet, but through the window, he could see a gentle orange glow.

A street light. It might be enough for the motion sensors to detect his movements and sound the alarms. But the route through the lobby was the one he had studied with Craig. He hadn't memorized and studied alternate routes along back ways through the unfamiliar theatre.

He stood for a long moment, undecided. His watch read 5:46. He turned and headed up the stairs. The next floor would likely be a mezzanine and the next a balcony. He would be on a fire stair now. He thought about the way a theatre would be situated. He was on the far left corner of the lobby. Near the center were the grand stairs that led up to the main doors at the back of the auditorium. From there, seats would slope downward toward the stage. The hallways he'd been in underground ran perpendicular to the front of the stage along the left side of the auditorium, so the stairs he now climbed would empty the balcony levels in case of emergencies. He needed to get to the stage, actually backstage, and usually, theatres were kept light-controlled so that no outside light could penetrate, ruining a performance. If he could get onto the balcony, then down to the main floor, he could go past the orchestra pit and onto the stage. 

It was a risk, since there often wasn't a connection between the house and the stage, but he decided it was worth a try. He opened the door onto the balcony, squinting a little to detect the least amount of light, lest the motion sensors find him. 

All was dark. He felt his way along the rows of seats looking for stairs. When he found some, he headed downward. At the next level, he did the same thing and once on the main floor he again headed downhill as quickly as he could.

He still carried the mop, but here the floor was carpeted, so it wouldn't slide smoothly and he carried it in front of him. Without its touch on the floor, he missed a step down next to the orchestra pit and stepped off into empty space, losing his balance and careening onto the floor in an awkward heap.

Panic ripped through him, but he was unhurt, and he took a minute to catch his breath. Gritting his teeth, he tucked the mop under his arm and retrieved his cane. With its help, he determined that the orchestra pit, located only a few feet to his right, was surrounded by a low railing, and the stage was nowhere to be found above it. No amount of prodding with his cane could locate it.

He followed the railing to the left until it met the unyeilding wall of the auditorium, but still found no stage. He grimaced in frustration.

His watch read 6:12. At 6:45, light would come streaming into the theatre lobby, and at 7:00 the regular crews of janitors would arrive to begin their work. Among them would be Natalia and Mrs. Morosov, looking for the shoes in the pre-arranged hiding place. Turning, his cane hit the row of folded theatre seats with a metallic clang and he followed them quickly. He located the end of the row and turned right, jogging uphill along the carpeted aisle.

He retraced his steps to the grand staircase and ran up them to the first balcony, then followed the rows of seats to the right, looking for the emergency stairs. He found them, and more precious minutes ticked by as he unlocked the door.

Once in the concrete stairwell, he swept his cane and tapped, listening to the echoes. Using both cane and mop to feel his way as fast as he dared, he descended to the dressing room level and entered the silent black hallway.

His watch read 6:27. 

This time he ran his hand along the right-hand wall. He felt the doorways, looking for clues, for signs, for anything that might help him find another stairway at the other end of the hall. The signs must have been painted on for there were none other than the raised dressing room numbers. A few doors were unlocked. He went into one and listened, tapping his cane on the floor. 

Carpet. No echoes. This was not a live-sounding stairwell. He left again and continued down the hall. The next door he tried was not carpeted and sounded slightly more echoey, but a beginning exploration led to a bathroom sink, not a stair. He reversed direction. Two doors later, he found what he was looking for. More concrete stairs led downward and upward.

_ Please, oh please,  _ he thought.

He chose the upward stairs. On the next floor up, he stopped. He would be even with the lobby here. Would this be the stage? He touched the door with his fingers. No window.

He felt for the knob. It wasn't locked. He turned the knob, slowly, and pulled, carefully, listening intently.

Silence.

Darkness. He opened the door farther. A draft of cool air met his face and a dusty smell. There was still darkness and he slid through the half-open door, easing it closed again. He left the dust mop next to it, propping it open, and swept his cane forward in a wide arc, searching.

It struck something yielding on his left and he reached out to touch it. A rope. Moving his hand forward, he found several ropes, and then a heavy fold of velvet curtain. He had found the stage.

His watch read 6:41.

On the far right side, there were rows of lockers, so he gingerly followed the curtain at the back of the stage, using his cane to touch the metal bar at its base rather than touch it with his hand. Natalia had warned him that this curtain, called a cyc, was special, to catch the colored stage lights, and shouldn't be touched.

His face found the heavy velvet curtains at the other side, called "legs," Natalia had said, and he pushed past it to look for the lockers along the wall. His cane found metal and he stuffed the ballet shoes into the empty lower left locker.

6:44.

He sprinted across the stage, his cane tracing arcs in front of his feet lest it have misplaced scenery or he was inadvertently heading for the edge and the dropoff into the orchestra pit. He found the other side and began the search for his mop to find the door. He found it quickly and eased back through.

Now, he descended two floors and located the little room with the skeleton key. Once inside, he flopped wearily on the floor and pulled a sandwich from his pocket.

His watch read 6:57.

[break]

It was nearly fifteen hours later that MacGyver sat in Row H, seat 12, neatly dressed in a tuxedo, his cane folded on his lap. As the ballet came to a close, he applauded with the rest of the audience and stood, unfolding his cane. He followed the tide of people through the echoing lobby and smiled politely at the usher who escorted him to his waiting limousine outside.


	19. Chapter 19

Sitting at Craig's round kitchen table, MacGyver reflected at the oddity that the safest place for him was the residence of an MI5 agent. He supposed agents had to live somewhere but it seemed weird that they just had regular addresses on regular streets in the middle of London, and took the Tube to work like everyone else. He supposed Craig was even in the telephone directory.

Craig brought a cup of tea, and Mac suppressed a sigh. He would have preferred one of his yogurt smoothies.

"Thanks," he said instead, smiling at Craig, who sat beside him.

"What is your cover?" he asked Craig. "Your day job?"

"Journalist," said Craig with what Mac assumed was a shrug. "That's why I was covering the ballet."

"Makes sense," agreed Mac.

"Any news?" asked Craig.

They were both getting impatient. It had been a week since the microfilms had been sent off to the labs for analysis, and Mac assumed Pete would call to brief him on their contents, but nothing had happened, and Pete had not called. Mac, always annoyed at inaction, was getting antsy. He'd been told to "sit tight" in London, but nothing else.

The only thing he'd managed to accomplish in the week of waiting was to solve the wooden brainteaser puzzle made by Mrs. Morosov's son. He had finally discovered which wooden piece fitted smoothly into each other wooden piece, mostly while listening to endless sport commentators on the television.

His fingers idly observed the reassembled toy in front of him on the table now, and he fought to push back the anger that his sensory-deprived brain attempted to hurl at him. With nothing distracting him, he found that blindness acted more than ever like a stifling enemy, turning mere boredom into a dark depression that made him want to scream and claw at the prison inside his own head.

He kept telling himself it was merely the adjustment to losing sight and learning to gain information through his other senses, but even his own factual assessment did little to calm the visceral feeling of acute loss.

The telephone rang and he jumped. Craig answered it, then handed the receiver to Mac.

It was Pete.

"MacGyver!" he said over the crackling international connection. "You must be going crazy over there!"

"Just a little," admitted Mac wryly. "Whatcha got?"

"Well, the lab finally got back to us with the microfilms. They had to decode a bunch of the material... that's what took all the time. What a haul! You really got the motherlode this time."

Craig had picked up a phone in the other room, and let Pete know he joined the call.

Pete continued. "It's a KGB spy ring, MacGyver! With people in every branch of every government all over the place."

He hesitated.

"You're sure this line is secure?" he asked.

Craig assured him that it was.

"Mac, they have people everywhere, even a guy right here in the Phoenix Foundation. That's how they got to you back in California."

Mac exhaled as he remembered the disorienting car ride, the garage escape, and the fire right after they had successfully locked Deborah up* and his sight had left him for the second time.

His fingers felt the wooden puzzle as more pieces of the political puzzle fell into place.

"Craig," Pete continued, not finished dropping his bombshells, "I hate to tell you, but Harris is one of their guys, too."

"My boss?" asked Craig, and Mac could hear the shock in his voice at hearing his suspicions so blatantly confirmed.

"Yes. Of course, Natalia knew about her father and about his hired goons." Pete's voice held a note of contempt.

"These documents," said Craig, "tell us names, but do they outline the plans of this ring? What were their intentions?"

"The documents don't outline specific plans, but they do give the time and place for a meeting where we think these plans are to be finalized," said Pete. "We want you to infiltrate this meeting."

"They know me," Mac objected, "and it's hard to disguise a blind guy."

"We want you to do one better," said Pete, as if Mac had not objected at all. "We want you to join them."

Mac sat stunned. "Join the KGB? Turn Double?" he finally asked.

"Precisely," answered Pete, with what Mac thought was a bit of a smug tone.

"They'd never buy it," started Mac, but Pete continued.

"I know you're known as a straight shooter, but that's where the blindness can help us. Something like that might change a man," Pete explained.

Mac sat in thoughtful silence for a minute. It was changing him. Not in that way, obviously, but Pete had a point. The thought of playing double agent turned his stomach, but a part of him began to turn over possibilities. He relished again the thrill of danger and the hunt. In that moment, he knew he would do it.

"It could work," he heard Craig saying, and he realized he'd missed part of the conversation. Again. He had to quit doing that.

"Sorry," he cut in, "say that again?"

"Our plan is to have Natalia make contact with her father," explained Pete patiently.

"No!" exploded MacGyver, standing up, the telephone cord dangling from his right hand. "It's too dangerous to send her back in there. He had her marked for elimination. His own daughter!" Mac knew his voice was rising with each word but didn't care. The thought of gentle, witty Natalia exposed to the brutality of the horrible man who was her father was more than he could stomach.

"Calm down, Mac," said Pete. "You of anyone should know that personal entanglements get in the way of operations like this."

Mac sat with a thud. Personal entanglements? Was he developing personal feelings for Natalia? Even so soon after Deborah had betrayed him? He had thought himself more professional than that.

"You're right, Pete," he admitted finally. "She can do the job, if she is willing."

"We need you to find that out for us. I'll send you the details on the summit and we'll work out exactly what you'll both be doing."

The phone call continued for a few more minutes but Mac's mind was elsewhere. He was already planning, he realized. Infiltrating a ring of KGB agents sounded both exciting and terrifying. He had to be absolutely convincing.

[Break]

One of Mrs. Morosov's several cats wound around Mac's ankles as he gingerly made his way through her overstuffed front room to the sofa, and when he seated himself it jumped onto his lap where it settled itself in a furry puddle. Not being much of a cat guy he made a reluctant truce with it and allowed it to stay as long as it didn't use him as a pincushion.

"Hello Mac," said Natalia with a smile as she sat beside him, close enough to make him feel warm inside. The cat jumped down. "They don't like me," said Natalia about the cat.

"You're lucky," muttered MacGyver, brushing at the stray hairs sure to be sticking to his trousers.

"Have you heard from Pete?" asked Natalia.

"Yes!" Mac looked up from the cat hair he couldn't see and his mood lifted. "That's what I came to tell you! Pete has the information from the microfilms. Where is Mrs. Morosov?"

"She is at the market," said Natalia. "She will want to know, but for now we may speak openly."

"Good," said MacGyver. He told Natalia about the ring of KGB agents headed by her father that included both Harris and the Phoenix foundation employee who had known his whereabouts in California. She had not heard the story of his kidnapping then and she shuddered when she heard about the fire.

"What is our plan?" she asked.

"I'm going to infiltrate their group," said Mac. "I'll pose as an agent who wants to join their ring and help them."

As he said it, Mac realized that their nearest point of contact was likely Harris and that convincing him that MacGyver was a useful asset to their group was going to be tricky. Mac frowned.

"And I?" asked Natalia. "What will I be doing?"

"The plans aren't finalized," started Mac, "but I think they want you to make contact with your family and eventually your father. Work the group from that side."

"We are trying to do what exactly?" asked Natalia.

"We need to find out what they plan to do and gather proof of their activities before we can make any move against them," said MacGyver. "We don't know what their target is."

"I have a guess," began Natalia, and MacGyver sat up straighter. "My father hates the new Soviet regime under Gorbachev. He thinks that it is no longer communist and he wants to assassinate Gorbachev."

"I'll bet that is exactly what they plan to do, but we cannot move against them until we have proof," said MacGyver. "I'll tell Pete what you said though. We know what to look for."

"What if we are too late?" asked Natalia worriedly.

Mac reached out and took her hand. "Let's hope we're not," he said softly.

She squeezed his hand back.

The door opened and Natalia jumped up to go help Mrs. Morosov bring in the shopping. As soon as she was gone, the big, squashy cat jumped again onto Mac's lap and began kneading his leg like a loaf of bread. He pushed it off and stood, making his way through stacks of clutter toward the kitchen where Mrs. Morosov and Natalia had begun a lively conversation in Russian. Mac caught a word here and there, but mostly it went by too quickly.

With one hand on the hallway wall, he headed toward the sound. His shoulder found the kitchen door jamb and he winced.

Once inside, however, he discovered that Mrs. Morosov had a large pot of potato and vegetable soup that had been bubbling on the back of the stove, and she sat him down at the table with a hunk of bread and a bowl of hot soup. He immediately felt better. Dipping his bread in the broth, which was full of tasty herbs, he was reminded of his mother's Swedish cooking in Minnesota and he smothered a misty smile.

Natalia and Mrs. Morosov were still bustling around the kitchen, putting away vegetables from string bags and talking. They seemed to realize that Mac was there and switched to English.

"My son, he is twenty-two now," said Mrs. Morosov, obviously finishing a story.

"Speaking of your son," said MacGyver, "I finished this." He pulled the wooden brainteaser from his pocket and set it on the table.

"I knew you would finish," laughed Mrs. Morosov with approval. "You are like my son. Always thinking."

"Where is your son now?" asked Mac.

"In Russia," said Mrs. Morosov. "I will not call it the USSR, because that is not my home. My home is Ukraine. But my son, he works in Russia."

"It's not a popular thing to say these days," commented Mac dryly.

"Popular," sniffed Mrs. Morosov. "Who listens to an old woman?"

Mac considered this. She had a point. People did not listen to old women. Or blind men. That could work to his advantage. If he was clever enough. He needed to talk to Pete again. It was time to call Harris and set up a meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *end of The Negotiator, Season 3 Episode 15 of MacGyver.


	20. Chapter 20

Sitting on the Tube train as it rocked gently back and forth, Mac twiddled his cane between his thumb and forefinger and worried. If the KGB ring already had a guy on the inside of the Phoenix Foundation then what did he have to offer them? Pete had said they were working on it, but how far had they gotten? And if he didn't have anything to offer them, what worth did he have? None, that's the answer. And no worth meant no life. Yet they hadn't killed him when they captured him from the ballet school. So maybe he did have some value. Was it enough?

He dreaded meeting with Harris. The man had acted like a bigot the last time they'd spoken and Mac had avoided him ever since, not because he had thought Harris was dirty, which he was, but because Mac didn't like being treated like an idiot simply because his eyes didn't work quite as well as they used to. Now, though, he needed to use that bigotry to his advantage. He needed to be thought an idiot… at least idiotic enough to join the KGB.

The robotic voice announced the impending arrival of the subway train at the Westminster station and Mac stood, ready to follow the crowd off the train car. Once up on the street, he smiled to himself at a passing tourist exclaiming over the nearness of Big Ben, although it wasn't close enough to the top of the hour to chime.

He stood still for a moment listening to the traffic and people, getting his bearings, then turned right to walk along the sidewalk to the corner. At the corner, he used the rare moment of sun in his face to assure himself that he had turned south to follow the sidewalk toward Millbank where the Security Service was located. He had several blocks to walk, past Abingdon Street Gardens and Victoria Tower gardens, both filled with the freshness of early spring, and he inhaled deeply, tipping his face to the sun.

At one point, he wasn't sure how far he'd gone, and he stopped, frowning.

"Do you need help, sir?" asked a male voice at his elbow.

"Are we close to Lambeth Bridge?" asked Mac.

"It's just there," said the man, presumably pointing in some unidentified direction.

"There?" asked Mac, pointing to the south, ahead of him.

"Indeed, yes," affirmed the man.

"Thanks," said Mac easily, once again sure of his bearings.

"No problem, mate," answered the man, and hurried on his way.

Mac continued through the intersection and crossed Millbank, finding himself at the building where he had first met London a few short weeks ago. He trailed the building until he found the entrance, luckily by the sound of someone exiting. He stopped for a moment to take a breath and went in.

Now that he wasn't with Harris, a receptionist challenged him immediately.

"May I help you?" she asked in a crisp, efficient voice.

"I need to speak with Reginald Harris, please," said MacGyver.

"Have you an appointment?" asked the woman mechanically.

Craig had taken care of this detail, so Mac affirmed that he did, and gave his name.

"Have a seat, please," said the woman.

In the dim entrance area, Mac could see nothing but shadows and one glaring window off to his left. He tightened his lips.

"Could you please direct me to a chair?" he asked politely.

The woman did not react with surprise. She seemed one of those capable creatures who dealt with each item that came at her with efficiency and dispatch, and without judgment. "There is one along the wall next to my window. To your right," she added helpfully.

"Thank you," said Mac, and used his cane to find the chair. With the chair located, he sat, disliking the waiting since it gave him time to worry more.

It was only a few minutes later when the telephone buzzed again, and the woman said, "Mr. Harris will see you now."

Mac stood uncertainly.

The receptionist spoke again, "If you'll wait just a moment, I asked Mr. Donovan to come and collect you."

"Thank you," Mac said again with a wry smile, thinking that the British manner of giving that sentence made him feel like a piece of luggage, although the woman surely didn't mean it that way. He was pleasantly surprised a minute later to find the young assistant at his elbow whom he had met during his first visit to this office.

"Hello," he answered the man's greeting. "I didn't catch your name before. Good to meet you, Donovan. I'm MacGyver."

Donovan acknowledged the greeting and gave Mac his elbow to guide him up to Harris's office.

"Have you worked here long?" asked Mac, thinking that he needed all the allies he could get.

"Only about six months," responded Donovan as they climbed the stairs.

"You were recruited then?" probed Mac.

"From University. Maths," answered Donovan laconically.

"Aaah," agreed MacGyver, knowing that math majors often fell under CIA scrutiny if they showed enough aptitude at the right schools.

"You are a good guide," said Mac honestly.

"My father's blind," explained Donovan.

"Really?" asked Mac with interest. No wonder the kid knew what he was doing.

"Here we are," explained Donovan after they had crossed the maze of the Bullpen. At the door, Mac thanked him and knocked, entering when bidden to do so.

"Mr. Harris," Mac said, holding out his hand for a handshake before the other man had a chance to do so, thus forcing Harris to take his handshake and allowing Mac to avoid fumbling. He stepped forward, found a chair with his knee and smoothly sat down, hoping he gave the impression of confidence.

"What can I do for you, MacGyver?" asked Harris in the tone of a busy man who had been unnecessarily interrupted.

"I'm sure Craig let you know why I needed to see you?" asked Mac with feigned surprise, knowing full well that Craig had not, in fact, told Harris anything about why Mac wanted to come.

"He did not," said Harris, but with a slight edge to his tone that told Mac he was just slightly off balance. Good.

"This room is… ah… soundproof?" asked Mac. "Or shall we arrange a lunch somewhere?"

Harris shifted in his seat. Mac had his interest now. What did Mac have to say that the rest of Bullpen didn't need to hear?

"We cannot be overheard," said Harris brusquely. "Although if you would prefer to go to lunch…" He let his words trail off. Mac pictured his eyes narrowing with curiosity. A pen clicked on the desk as Harris set it down.

Mac leaned forward intimately.

"We may have a mutual… interest," he began.

"Go on," said Harris.

Mac launched into his story, carefully worked out with Craig and Pete that week. Dropping the name of the man on the inside of the Phoenix Foundation told Harris exactly what he was talking about. Mac also knew that earlier that week the man had been arrested and charged with counterespionage, leaving the opening Mac might be able to use.

"...so my boss doesn't know that I found out who to talk to," finished up Mac. "But you'll be needing a man there now. And who would suspect a blind guy?" he finished with an ironic twist to his lip.

The chair creaked as Harris sat back in it. "How did you know to come to me, Mr. MacGyver?" he asked smoothly.

Mac told about the scraps and pieces from the plane that plausibly could have led back to Harris but that wouldn't make the man nervous that he'd been leaked to anyone else. Mac didn't feel the need to mention his little trip to Paris.

Harris sat in silence for several minutes. Mac sat quietly too, knowing this was part of the game.

"How can I reach you, Mr. MacGyver?" he asked at last, and Mac had to consciously suppress the urge to let out a breath of relief. He gave the man a hotel number he'd arranged and stood with his hand outstretched again. Harris stood too and shook it.

"I'll contact you," he said dismissively.

Mac didn't respond, but turned toward the door. This time, to his chagrin, he took far too long to locate the doorknob and frowned in frustration. He finally did find it though and stepped out of the office into the Bullpen, hoping Donovan would see him.

When no one came after thirty seconds or so, Mac decided to wing it. Using his cane to locate a path around the desks and toward the stairs he'd been down twice before wasn't as hard as he expected, and he felt a sense of triumph when he stood once again on the street level.

Now, he just needed to wait for Harris to call.

He began making his way back up Millbank toward Westminster, thinking how the Thames river smelled so distinctively like the Thames that he would know it if he were dropped here out of the clear sky, when a voice at his elbow startled him.

"Mr. MacGyver?"

It was Donovan.

"Hello again," said Mac warmly.

"Would you… would you care to get a sandwich?" asked Donovan hesitantly.

Mac agreed easily. He didn't know why the kid was so friendly, but he needed to kill some time and get some lunch anyway.

Donovan led him to a sandwich shop on the corner of Great Peter Street. Donovan ordered ham on rye and Mac asked for falafel. They took their plates to a table along a side wall and Donovan thoughtfully brought glasses of ice water.

As they started their lunch, Donovan leaned in, and without warning, said, "I don't know who to tell, Mr. MacGyver, but I'm worried about Harris."

Mac's eyebrows lifted. "Worried?" he asked. "How so?"

"Well," Donovan said awkwardly, searching for words, "I have not worked at TSS for very long, but whilst working there I have noticed a few… oddities."

"With Harris, you mean," probed Mac.

"You know what?" said Donovan in a different tone of voice. "Just forget I said anything, yes?"

Mac chewed his falafel pita thoughtfully. Obviously the kid had sussed out that Harris was double-dealing but he was scared to turn his boss over to someone he didn't know. Mac had to handle this delicately or he, too, might fall under the kid's scrutiny and he couldn't afford that right now.

"No, I'm glad you told me," he said with a sincere smile at Donovan. "I'll keep my eyes open… in a figure of speaking." He winked.

He could feel the air around the table relax as Donovan sank back against his chair.

"Thanks, Mr. MacGyver," said the kid gratefully.

"You might want to keep it between us for now," cautioned Mac in a friendly tone. "I'd hate for word to get around… you know?" he said vaguely.

"Yes, I can see that," agreed Donovan, and Mac made a mental note to keep this kid close. Whether friend or enemy, he really needed to watch this one, because he was just a little too smart for his own good. Mac also realized that Donovan wasn't going to be taken in by the blindness thing either. He wouldn't underestimate Mac; in fact he might even know the use of that trick already.

"What does your dad do?" he asked, as if to change the subject.

"Race car driver," quipped Donovan, so fast that Mac knew he'd used that joke a thousand times before. "No, I'm kidding. He is an accountant for an architectural firm."

"Here in London?" asked Mac.

"Yes, why?" queried Donovan, with a slight trace of suspicion in his voice.

"Oh, no reason," said Mac quickly. "I just don't know many blind guys and I wondered, that's all."

Donovan didn't answer but took another bite of his sandwich and Mac felt that his answer didn't entirely satisfy the young man.

Definitely needs watching. Closely. Because he is now watching me, thought Mac with a slight shiver.


	21. Chapter 21

The call came the next night. Mac was sitting at Craig's kitchen table putting the wooden brainteaser together once again. He hooked pieces together and slid others past them. Because he had arranged with the hotel to forward that particular number to him, when it rang, he was there.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver.

"MacGyver." Harris's voice held a shade more warmth than it ever had before toward Mac.

"Speaking," Mac affirmed, wrapping the coiled receiver wire around his finger.

"There is a meeting in one week. March twenty-second, in Pretoria, South Africa." Harris went on to name a hotel and time there and tell Mac that it was registered as a business meeting for an acquisitions company.

Mac's heart leapt. He was being invited into the inner circle. Attending this meeting could only mean acceptance. He also knew it was a test. There would be a test not only of his ability to get there and take care of himself but of his loyalty and trustworthiness.

The game was on. Mac slid the last wooden piece into the completed puzzle and it locked firmly into place.

A week later, MacGyver made his way through the Heathrow airport toward gate A23, where his plane would depart for Johannesburg in two hours. The ticket agent who escorted him through the airport didn't seem inclined to make conversation, which was fine with MacGyver, who felt buried in his thoughts. He thanked the escort and sat at the gate after obtaining his boarding pass.

"You MacGyver?" asked a man sitting down next to him.

Mac turned to the man in surprise. "Who's asking?" he said carefully.

"Sorry," said the man with a trace of an accent Mac couldn't place. "Name's Claude. I'm a friend of Harris…"

Mac raised an eyebrow.

"It is possible we are going to the same place, you and I," said Claude, sitting back comfortably in his chair and crossing his legs.

Mac nodded his agreement but didn't try to make more conversation.

To his surprise, when it came time to board the plane, Claude offered to guide Mac. He realized that if he was truly the defector he claimed to be, he should be eager to make friends, and he tried to quell his reservations about Claude.

"Thanks," he said with a grin, taking Claude's arm and slinging his backpack onto one shoulder. He'd discovered that using a backpack was a better way to keep his hands free.

They showed their boarding cards and followed the long ramp onto the plane. Mac showed his card to a stewardess who led him to his seat. Claude disappeared toward the rear of the plane.

For a while, Mac's row remained empty, but then a slightly-built young woman slid into the seat next to him and began to adjust her seat belt.

"Hi," said Mac with a cheerful smile. He'd found that breaking the ice early on long flights helped as you were bound to get to know one another eventually anyway.

"Hello," said the girl, sitting back in her seat with a little sigh.

"Name's MacGyver," he said.

"I'm Suzanne," she offered, and he realized her accent did not quite sound British, and definitely not American.

"Are you headed home?" he guessed.

"How did you know?" she gasped.

"Your accent. I'm guessing it's South African," he explained lightly.

"Oh, yes," she agreed with a laugh. "We joke that it's pronounced Seffrican if you live there. I'm from Pretoria. Just going home on holiday from Uni."

"Pretoria is where I'm going," he said happily. "I've never been there before. Is it nice?"

"Well, I was dying to get away, of course," said Suzanne with another laugh. "Uni students do you know. But once I did, I really want to go home." Her voice held a trace of wistfulness.

"I'm sure your family misses you," said Mac.

"They do, they really do," she agreed, then as if to change the subject, she asked, "If you don't mind me asking, why do your eyes look like that?"

"Scars. I was burned," he said simply.

"Can you see?" She asked.

"Not much," he said.

"Mmm," she said, then, "Why are you going to Pretoria?"

"Business conference," he answered laconically, thinking how surprised she'd be if he casually gave the real reason.

"You don't look like a businessman," she giggled, and he thought how college students were a funny combination of children and adults.

"Shh, I'm incognito," he teased, and she giggled again.

"Pretoria is the capitol, you know," she offered offhandedly.

"Really?" asked Mac with interest.

"We have to be careful sometimes because of the protests," she continued.

"Against Apartheid?" queried Mac.

"I hate it!" burst out Suzanne. "I hate that my country is so backward and I hate my stupid government! Did you know there is to be a big concert in June in London? Against Apartheid?"

"I may have heard something about it," admitted Mac. "I hope it helps. Sometimes global pressure works wonders."

"I hope so too," said Suzanne fervently, settling again into her seat as the plane rose skyward.

She relapsed into silence, absorbed in the in-flight movie, something about a creepy mansion, an annoying couple and a ghost for hire that Mac couldn't see and wasn't interested in anyway.

Left alone with his thoughts, he pondered how best to get the plans from the KGB ring to Pete. He'd need proof of whatever they were planning; it wouldn't be enough to listen in on the meeting and take notes. He smiled to himself as he imagined requesting a full copy of their plans in braille and then jauntily taking it himself to Pete.

He must have fallen asleep because it wasn't long before the plane was descending into Johannesburg and Suzanne wished him good luck as he explored Pretoria.

He smiled and thanked her, wishing her well for her holiday.

"You know," she said shyly, "If you ever want a tour from a local, here's my number." She put a piece of paper into his hand.

"I mean it's my parents' number too, not just my number. I don't want you to think…" she sounded suddenly flustered and embarrassed.

"I know what you mean," said Mac gently. "Thanks." He slipped the paper into his pocket.

As they deplaned, a man from the waiting crowd stepped forward and said in a thick accent, "Mr. MacGyver?"

Mac turned to look at the man, but couldn't make out any details. "Yes?" he said curiously.

"I am your driver, Jabulani, but you can call me Jabu," said the man.

"My driver?" asked Mac in perplexity. "I didn't call for a driver."

"I was hired by a Mr. Craig and told to look for you," said Jabu.

Mac felt relief wash over him. How thoughtful Craig had been! "Ah! Yes," he agreed with a grin.

"May I take your bag, sir?" asked Jabu politely, but Mac just as politely refused, hitching his pack higher on his shoulder. He did accept Jabu's offer of sighted guide, stopped to show him how he could take Jabu's elbow, and followed him out of the sprawling Jan Smuts International Airport.

Jabu's car turned out to be a tiny, ancient Volvo that had almost as much personality as Jabu himself. When it was turned on, it wheezed and complained and finally decided to start, much to Jabu's delight, and they were off.

Mac had informed Jabu that he wanted the Orient Hotel in Pretoria, and was assured that yes, Jabu knew that place. He took off in the wheezy little Volvo at breakneck speed, as if getting Mac the 26 miles from the airport to the hotel was a matter of life or death. He occasionally stepped on the brakes or careened to the side, and Mac could hear the bleating of goats or sheep, even on the busy paved roads. He lowered his window, letting the warm late-summer air wash over him and enjoying the cacophony of cars and people, and the smells of dust and traffic and flowers. Soon they were on the highway and the city sounds gave way to quieter, open space, and the desert/city feeling that reminded him somehow of Southern California.

Jabu drove with happy abandon, and it was not long before they were again surrounded by city and pulling up to a hotel where Mac heard the calm rustle of palm trees.

"This hotel is a nice hotel," commented Jabu, and Mac guessed that he was also thinking Mac didn't look like a businessman. He probably didn't look like he belonged in a nice hotel either, with his too-long haircut, his jeans, and sneakers, but as usual, he didn't worry too much about it. He enjoyed being comfortable.

He slung his pack onto one shoulder, unfolded his cane and took Jabu's arm. They passed under a huge archway into a quiet courtyard and Mac felt the ambiance of the place touch his soul. They descended two steps and found the front desk, passing a tinkling fountain and sweet-smelling flowers.

Mac registered and Jabu handed him off to a bellhop, with many promises to be available to drive whenever he was needed in the future. Mac paid him and gravely promised to hire him again should he need a driver. A second piece of paper with a phone number joined the one in his pocket.

The bellhop took Mac down cool, dim tiled hallways to his room, which was also spacious, tiled and cool. He gave the man a few Rand and began exploring his room.

A square tub was set into the floor in one corner. The bed occupied the center of the room, and two chairs and a desk flanked it. The bathroom was in a little corner by the door.

Across the room, large doors opened onto a courtyard or patio; Mac couldn't quite tell which. When he went out, two stairs down surprised him and he nearly lost his balance. This place was going to have a lot of these little level changes, it seemed. He could hear the splashing of a couple of kids enjoying a swimming pool. He made a mental note not to fall into that later too.

The next thing to do, he supposed, was to locate the conference room. He decided to at least try a little harder on the clothing side of things and he rummaged through his pack for a button-down shirt, realizing he would need to iron it and he tossed it on the bed, along with a pair of khaki-colored slacks. There would be a flat iron in his room somewhere, he knew, but it would take time to locate it.

Pocketing his key, he shook out his cane and left the room, turning right down the shadowy hallway, trying to remember the way they had just come.

Doors on his right presumably led to rooms, although he could not read the signs and they were not Brailled.

Further down the hall, the space opened up and the air around him grew lighter. He paused, wondering where he was. He took a step forward and his cane found the ubiquitous two steps down. Then, it hit something solid. Just as it did, the fronds of a plant tickled his face. Surprised that no one had rushed in to rescue him, he realized the room must be empty. He moved to the right of the potted plant and found a bamboo sofa. With his hand on the back of the sofa, he stopped to think.

He'd turned right to get into the hallway, although he hadn't realized this lounge was there. But he must need to go to the left now to get back to the lobby and conference area.

Using the two steps, he traced their square until he found the doorway he needed, went back up into the other wing, down two more steps and was finally greeted with a friendly voice.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Yes," he said gratefully. "I'm looking for the conference rooms."

"Right this way, sir," the young woman said, taking his arm to push him along.

"One second," he hesitated. "I'm going to be here for several days. I need to be able to find the way myself."

"Of course, sir," answered the young woman pleasantly, but with obvious confusion.

"Where am I now?" asked Mac, thinking how foolish that question sounded and surprised at how little he cared.

"This is the lobby, sir," explained the young woman. "The front desk is over there."

Mac smiled to himself at how often people did this. "Over there?" He asked, pointing to where he guessed it to be.

She moved his hand, correcting the direction and he listened for clues in the room. The fountain, flowers, brass bells, and then a telephone rang. Perfect.

"Okay," he said, turning to the friendly young employee who was only about five feet tall, so he felt as though he was talking to a gnome.

"If I take your arm, can you lead me to the conference room area?" he asked politely.

She agreed and ended up giving him a slow tour of the whole facility. She seemed somewhat pleased and amused at what he found important and what he wanted to know. He, in turn, felt genuinely grateful at her willingness to take the time to give him the information he needed to get around conveniently. She showed him the conference room labeled GlobeTron Acquisitions and one next door reserved for an Afrikaans landowners union.

Tomorrow the conferences would start. He would meet KGB men from around the globe, possibly including the ones who had kidnapped him. There was no way to be prepared for that, but knowing his way around the hotel couldn't hurt.

"One last thing," he asked the woman.

"Yes?" she asked pleasantly.

"Would you please read these phone numbers to me so I can memorize them?"


	22. Chapter 22

As MacGyver walked back through the long, dim corridor toward his room, he idly ran his right hand along the wall, enjoying its rough terracotta texture and the little patterned cutouts at intervals that led out onto a secluded terrace filled with sunlight and rustling palm trees.

At first, he thought it was empty, but as he walked, he heard low voices through the wall. At first he wasn't planning to listen, and had just turned away to try and locate his room by the rubber band he'd placed around the door knob, when he heard his name coming from the men's conversation beyond the wall. He paused.

"...why they brought him on. He'll be only a liability. Harris should never have agreed."

"Harris thought…" began the other, a man with an accent Mac at the moment couldn't place.

"He needs to be eliminated. He has caused me far too much embarrassment as it is. Twice now. I tell you I won't turn around and work next to him."

Owens! Mac recognized the clipped British accent, which now held an undertone of… was it German? That made sense if it was true. Mac nearly held his breath, listening.

"You're not seeing the bigger picture, my friend," growled the second voice, which Mac guessed was Russian. "If we eliminate him then we have no one on which to place the blame, you understand?"

Owens, or whatever his real name was, sat in silence for a full minute. "Blame?" he asked finally.

"Well," said the Russian lazily, "someone must be in charge of this plot. Someone must be seen here. And who better than our American friend?"

"You don't just want Gorbachev out, then?" asked Owens cunningly. "You want to blame the Americans?"

"Why not?" said the Russian. "It takes heat off us, stirs pots that need stirring…"

"You're hoping my country will join you then, against America?" asked Owens.

"Your country," said the Russian with mild distaste, "has its own problems at the moment. The freedom movement, for instance, causes big distractions and so far can not be put down."

The other sat in uncomfortable silence.

"We welcome this Mr. MacGyver," said the Russian with finality, and a chair creaked as he stood.

Mac shrank back toward the darker side of the passage, feeling slowly along the opposite wall for his doorknob. He found it, slipped inside, shut and bolted the door.

He had to think. What to do now? This explained why he had been accepted so easily… too easily as he saw now.

He still needed to take back proof of the ring's intentions as well as a plan for stopping them, but he realized he was in a tight spot if they planned to use him as a political scapegoat. Even if the plan failed, the uproar could cause mayhem across the globe.

Should he leave? If he left, they would simply find someone else. Somehow, he needed to find a way to get ahead of them, something he had so far been unable to do.

He sat wearily on the corner of his bed, thinking. Then, he got up and began systematically searching his room for an electric iron and ironing board. He found one, smiling at the seed of an idea that was beginning to blossom. As the iron heated up, he picked up the telephone.

[break]

The next morning, MacGyver sat in a molded plastic chair at a conference table, fingering the croissant that someone had placed in front of him and trying to sort out the names and voices of the other men sitting around the table with him.

At the head of the table, the big Russian with the gravelly voice that he had overheard in the courtyard was Aleksander Petrov, Natalia's father, and a high official in the government of the USSR. To his right was a slighter man with a higher voice, his brother, Fyodor Petrov, who had been Natalia's manager. Mac had to swallow his anger at these two men and keep his face calm as he was introduced.

Coming down the table on their left were Harris and Claude, and Owens, whose real name turned out to be Schneider. He was in charge of security for the group, and he managed the guards stationed at both doors, men Mac didn't quite have sorted out but there was at least one German and one Somali.

In addition to MacGyver, there was also a Russian soldier, whom everyone simply called the Major. He sat quietly through the proceedings, but Mac felt his presence ominously.

The Aleksander Petrov opened the meeting jovially, but got quickly to business.

"We are in agreement here," he began, "that President," he spat out the word, "Mikhail Gorbachev stands in the way of the advancement of Soviet ideals."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table. Mac fingered the recording wire he wore threaded through his sleeve, hoping it was working properly.

"It just comes down to details, then," he said amiably, as if he was planning a birthday party for a twelve-year-old.

"He is planning two trips, one to the United States and to France, and one to East Germany for the 40th Anniversary celebration," he said with relish. "These two trips abroad offer the best possibilities for us."

Fyodor Petrov spoke up. "France is easier than the United States. The security is not so tight there and Claude is better placed to get us what we need."

If he had been hoping to goad MacGyver into speaking up, he was disappointed. Mac sat still.

Claude said, "French soldiers I can get you, yes. Without questions asked if I have enough to pay them."

Fyodor said, "Money, yes. It is not a problem. Many wealthy friends are looking to see this happen."

Owens (Mac still couldn't think of him as Schneider) shifted in his seat. "I am concerned of too many knowing of these plans," he said tersely.

"Shut up Schneider," growled Harris. "Who would you leave in the dark? Me?"

"It is not you I was thinking of," explained Owens quickly.

"Me, I suppose," said Mac easily. "The new guy."

"The last Phoenix man talked," said Owens with a shrug.

"I am not him," exclaimed Mac, rising suddenly to his feet. Several others around the table also stood quickly.

"Sit, sit," Aleksander intoned. "We are men, not dogs, no? We need not do these foolish games."

Mac sat again, a half smile on his face. He found himself beginning to like this man, which was strange considering how much he hated him.

The talk droned on, and Mac could feel tension building inside him. All of these people were here, now. If they were allowed to disburse, they would be so much harder to find and arrest later. But to do anything now, there was so little time…

He found he had been missing some of the conversation until he heard his name.

"Mr. MacGyver?" It was Aleksander.

"Huh? I mean yes?" he asked quickly.

"You are maybe sleeping?" asked Aleksander with mild humor.

"Sorry, no, I wasn't. I was thinking," he explained lamely.

Aleksander did not comment on this. "I am told you are explosives expert?"

"Yes, I've been known to handle a bomb or two," answered MacGyver with a wry smile.

"And you were blinded by bomb, too?" asked Aleksander with irony.

"I was, yeah," said MacGyver simply.

"It does not speak well for your work then, does it?" said Aleksander, not blunting the point.

"Hey, pal, it wasn't my bomb, okay?" said Mac, raising both palms.

"Yes, oh-kay," agreed Aleksander, and Mac realized the man had been messing with him. "We need bomb for this job. Good bomb."

"You got it," said Mac with a grin. "Payment on delivery, of course."

"Of course," agreed Aleksander. "How about we break for lunch?"

Everyone began standing and stretching. The guards at the doors began to move about, with small clicks in their hands that told Mac they held guns. Probably AK-47s again, he guessed, and wondered how they'd gotten them into the hotel.

Lunch had been set out for them on tables on the patio. Mac listened carefully for a member of the hotel staff to ask for help, since buffet lines were still beyond his ability to negotiate. After several minutes he heard a telltale musical accent and made his way to the short woman who had given him the tour earlier.

"May I be of service, sir?" she asked as he approached.

"Would you please fill a plate for me? A little of everything and a glass of water," he asked in a low voice.

"Of course, sir," she agreed, and left to do so. In a minute she was back with a plate and cup. "Have you chosen a seat yet, sir?"

"Not yet," he admitted, thankful for her tact. He touched her shoulder lightly, and she led him to a table already occupied by two men, who turned out to be Fyodor and Aleksander.

The food, a traditional South African braai, was delicious. There was barbecued meat, which although Mac preferred not to eat meat normally, he went ahead and participated as a cultural experience, roasted vegetables and tomatoes, and some kind of mashed starch that he didn't catch the name.

"You manage well," said Fyodor, and Mac realized the brothers had been watching him.

"Uhh, thanks," he said after finishing a bite. It's funny how people assumed blind people couldn't eat.

As if he had read his thoughts, Fyodor said, "not just the eating. You get from here to here. You get pretty woman to help you." His teasing tone implied a bit of innuendo, and Mac laughed.

"It can be handy," he said, going along with the joke.

"What is hardest part?" asked Aleksander abruptly.

"Of being blind?" queried Mac.

"Yes, of losing sight."

Mac pondered this. On the one hand, the hardest part was having other people treat him differently. Ask him questions. Assume incompetence. But he didn't feel like now was the time to say that.

"I think…" he said slowly, "my brain always trying to see. It's maddening." Like descent into hell maddening, he thought, as he remembered some of the hours of sensory deprivation where his mind screamed for visual images, and his whole being seemed to reel from the shock and anger of loss.

"Mmm," said Aleksander, apparently nodding appreciatively. "That would be difficult, yes. But you find a way through?"

"I'm not sure I have yet," answered Mac honestly. "I'm still trying not to think about it."

"Ah, the, what is the word, denial," said Aleksander sagely.

Mac looked up sharply. "Denial?"

Aleksander said, "Anyone who does not grieve is in denial."

"And what do you grieve?" asked MacGyver bitterly before he could stop himself.

"Many things," said Aleksander softly. "I grieve many things. Many things I must sacrifice to do what I believe I must."

Yeah, like your daughter, thought MacGyver, suddenly wishing he was sitting at another table. He was saved from having to answer by the young staff person approaching their table and offering to refill their drinks. He accepted and busied himself finishing his food.

To his relief, the two Russians rose and left the table, leaving Mac alone. He hadn't realized just how lonely he felt until that minute. After all, he had lived alone for years. But in that moment, surrounded by conversations he was not part of and faces he couldn't see, he felt unbelievably lonely. He missed Natalia, he realized.

He thought about her, back in London now, staying with Mrs. Morosov at the moment. Everyone had decided it was a good solution and a safe place for her where Craig could keep an eye on her, and the lonely elderly woman had eagerly welcomed her company. Mac suspected she might do a bit of cleaning and tidying as well.

He pictured her there, surrounded by cats, doing her ballet stretches daily, letting the shaggy haircut grow out again until she could once again pin it up. He remembered its light silkiness in his fingers and he felt sad and hot and tight. He needed to stop this and get his head focused on here and now.


	23. Chapter 23

What was happening in the here and now was that everyone in the group was getting up from their lunch tables and moving back toward the conference rooms. What the guards had done with their rifles, Mac had no idea, but they evidently hadn't brought them to the buffet line.

"May I assist you, Mr. MacGyver?" asked a voice at Mac's elbow, which turned out to belong to Claude. Mac couldn't decide if the guy was overhelpful just to him or if he was that way with everyone. He had been eager to donate what he could this morning to The Plan.

"Sure, thanks," agreed Mac, thinking that a chance to get to know him a little better couldn't hurt. "Did you happen to see a men's room?" he asked.

"But of course," answered Claude amiably. "I too need such a room."

He led Mac through the now-familiar passages and two-stairs-up, two-stairs-down, which Mac found were becoming more useful landmarks than irritating nuisances.

They located a restroom and used it, sharing it with several men speaking what first sounded like Dutch but turned out to be Afrikaans.

Back in the conference room again, Mac felt the tension growing once again. He had trouble focusing on the group's discussion of The Plan and gave mechanical answers to his own part of supplying a small bomb to be used by the military at the needed time.

The afternoon wore on, and he strained his ears for sounds of activity within the hotel, but all was quiet. It was getting too late. It wasn't going to work.

Then, like a miracle, he began to hear chattering voices.

At first in groups of twos and threes, but soon a river of people moving up and down the tile passageways told MacGyver it had begun.

"What is going on?" growled Aleksander as the noise outside the room grew louder.

Mac slid a little lower in his chair, not daring to smile to himself.

Someone outside brought in a small hand drum, a djembe, and then someone else brought one, and soon there was chanting and singing up and down the hallway, and the voices in the conference room could no longer be heard without shouting.

Aleksander walked to the door, wrenching it open.

"What is going on out here?" he roared. He was met by a river of laughing, chanting young people. Mac caught a few words: "Equality. Freedom."

"It's an anti-apartheid protest. Non-violent, of course. But why here?" asked Harris in amazement.

The students had invaded the conference room next door. Mac heard voices in Afrikaans trying to swim against the tide of people but they were overwhelmed with fruit, flowers, and more songs.

When Aleksander opened their door, the mass of people began dancing, chanting, drumming, and singing their way into GlobeTron Acquisitions as well. Ignoring the AK-47s, the writhing mass of jubilant young people started a new song in Zulu, hands clapping to the rhythm of their joyful words.

Mac felt close to tears. Suzanne had done her work well. The conference next door provided the perfect cover, and the mass of young people could keep this group occupied for the hours needed for Interpol to arrive.

The love-in protest continued as darkness fell. Several times Aleksander and Fyodor tried to leave and were always pulled back by the happy dancing crowd. The rifles were thrown aside and forgotten.

In the midst of the melee, Mac quietly sat by the wall, taking a small radio from his pocket and carefully rewiring it to boost the signal. Leaving it on, he waited.

"Isn't this wonderful?" asked Suzanne, sitting on the floor beside Mac, their backs to the wall.

He turned to face her. "I'm impressed, Suzanne. Only one day and you organized all this."

"We were ready to go already. We just needed a place," she said with a happy sigh.

"I don't know if you realize what you've done for me here tonight," said Mac.

"It doesn't matter," she replied breezily. "It just matters that we did it without violence."

"True," he agreed. "But really, I don't know how to thank you."

"Oh the fun we're having is thanks enough," she replied. "And interrupting those stodgy old…"

"Is the Afrikaans…?" he began, but she corrected him.

"Afrikaners. Not all of them are Apartheid. And some English are. It's all mixed up. But someday it's going to get better," she said brightly.

He smiled at her enthusiasm and hope. He felt his eyes suddenly mist with tears and he hoped sincerely that yes, things would soon get better in this beautiful country.

He stood.

"Goodbye, sweetheart. I doubt I'll see you again," he said, giving Suzanne a warm hug. "It's people like you that are making it better, you know?"

She hugged him back. "Goodbye to you too." She wafted back into the noisy, dancing crowd of students.

[break]

It was nearing nine o'clock in the evening when the Interpol men in plainclothes arrived. They found Mac waiting by the door, evidently briefed by Pete to look for the guy with a white cane.

"You Mr. MacGyver?" asked the man quietly, seemingly unfazed by the raucousness around them.

"Yes," answered Mac.

"MacLaren, Interpol. Pete Thornton sent us," he explained. "He said it would be safer for you if we arrest you too and keep your cover intact for now."

Mac raised his eyebrows at this but agreed. One of MacLaren's men turned him and cuffed him, taking his cane. He suddenly discovered that with his hands cuffed behind him, he felt incredibly vulnerable.

Since most of the protestors were Black African, with the exception of Suzanne and her university friends, the officers had no trouble identifying the men they needed to arrest.

Mac listened as the police officers made their way among the shouting, dancing students, identifying themselves and putting on handcuffs.

Every time the men tried to make a break for it, they were surrounded by joyful dancing people, and like Mac, given beaded necklaces, fruit, and flowers. It wasn't long before they were taken away, and the freedom protest continued into the night.

The Interpol man pushed him ahead, not roughly but firmly, and Mac fought panic with not having his hands in front of him to feel what was ahead.

"I can't see, pal," he said, when he wasn't warned about the two steps down into the lobby and nearly fell.

The cop did not apologize, but Mac noticed he did take a little more care with things like steps and doors.

As he and the others were loaded onto a police van, he sat silently among his silent colleagues. The metal side of the van felt chilly against his shoulder blades. The van began to sway as it drove through the city.

The ride wasn't long, and soon they were being unloaded and taken to a processing area of a government prison. He heard the clanging of bars and saw flashes of fluorescent light here and there. The place smelled dank and damp.

Finally, Mac could take a moment to reflect. It had worked! Without a shot being fired, the entire KGB spy ring was rounded up at once, their plot effectively finished. He wished he could call Pete.

As the wait to be processed stretched into the night, Mac grew hungry, for the dinner hour had been skipped in the confusion. First the group was lined up and chained to a bench for several hours. Then, one at a time they were taken into a small, dim room with a table and several men, informed of the charges against them and strip-searched. Mac, not exempted from this, felt a profound relief that it was Interpol searching him and not Aleksander and Company. He was given a prison uniform, re-cuffed and led to join the other men.

He wondered how long Pete intended him to remain here. Was there more to be learned? Is that why he was still here? Was his cover really that important?

After another long wait, he and the group were herded into a large group cell to wait for the night. There were benches along the wall but no beds, as the complaints of the others made immediately clear. Under his feet, the cement floor felt scummy.

His hands were now cuffed to a belt in front of him but he couldn't use them to find his way. Mac walked slowly toward a wall to find somewhere to sit. His knees met another person and he muttered an awkward apology, moving crablike sideways until he found an empty section of bench. He sat, stretched his long legs out morosely in front of him and considered all the names he might call Pete when he finally got out of this stinking hole.

[break]

In the morning, they were split up and taken to different cell blocks. MacGyver was given a room in a short, quiet hallway not far from the front processing area.

The shackles were removed from his wrists, and he felt almost giddy with the freedom to use his hands again. He quickly walked the perimeter of his room. A bed, a sink, a toilet. He gratefully used this, then washed his hands and face.

Food was brought on a tray, and though it was bland, Mac wasn't about to be picky at this point. He devoured the eggs, left the ham and munched on the dry biscuit.

Then he went and began examining the lock with his fingers. It was an old-fashioned skeleton-type lock and he began to think about what he might be able to use to file a key.

It turned out to be unnecessary, however, because an hour later a guard came and opened the door for him.

"This way," said the guard, evidently gesturing him out.

Mac sighed, pointed to his eyes and shook his head. The guard took his elbow, which made Mac wince a bit but he decided he didn't have the luxury of instruction on sighted guide technique here. He kept his right hand raised slightly to shield his face from bumps and allowed the man to propel him along into the unknown.

They reached an office and the door was closed behind them. Mac could hear the buzz of fluorescent lights and smell cigarette smoke. The floor here was tile rather than concrete.

"Mr. MacGyver, it's Captain MacLaren," said the man seated behind the desk. "I apologize for the delay in getting you out. I have had a difficult time isolating you from the others."

"Ah," said Mac, tipping his chin, waiting, not sure he quite wanted to trust this man.

"But all is well now and you're free to go. I'll have someone drive you to the airport," he said with smooth efficiency.

"Actually, I have a driver," said Mac with a smile. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all," said MacLaren. "We appreciate your fine work in this case."

Mac nodded to acknowledge the man's words and the door opened. The same guard shunted him back to processing where he was given his clothes back, including, he noticed with humor, his Swiss Army knife and his cane.

Jabu was called and Mac waited in the hot sun until he heard the wheezy little Volvo pull up in front of the government building where he had been deposited by the guard.

First, they drove back to the hotel. He didn't stay in the hotel but collected his pack and checked out.

As they drove, he told Jabu about the protest.

"My country, it is giving birth," said Jabu simply. "Sometimes it is with pain. But soon it will be new."

Mac was surprised at the note of prophecy in the man's voice.

"Do you protest too?" he asked.

"No, no," answered Jabu. "I have a wife. Children. The protests are very dangerous, often with guns and violence. I do not want to die."

"But you want freedom too?" asked MacGyver, thinking how cliché it was that blind people couldn't see skin color but on a practical level it was true. He could guess by the name and the accent, but he really wasn't sure.

"Of course I do!" snorted Jabu. "It is illegal for me to work many jobs, to live places, to earn money for my family to live well."

Mac shook his head, thinking how he would not have understood this man in quite the same way a few months ago. For him, it was not overtly illegal as a blind man to work at jobs, to earn money, to have a life, just that everywhere he turned people tried to stop him doing it. Either by their prejudice or by their pity they placed barriers in his way constantly. Really, he and Jabu were alike: they just wanted to be free. Free to live and choose and work as they wanted to.

Somehow he didn't know how to explain all that to Jabu without sounding like a privileged white American though, so he said only, "I wish you well, friend."

They arrived at the airport and Mac discovered that he was faced with a dilemma: should he go back to London and see Natalia or should he go straight back to California and brief Pete?

He realized suddenly that the job was done. Natalia was safe.

There would be a trial, of course, but the evidence he had collected with the wire he'd worn and his personal testimony would be sufficient to convict all of the criminals, he was sure. Interpol would hold them, probably extraditing them to a secure prison in one of the European countries.

He shuddered as he thought about the plan they'd concocted. Once put into place, they surely would have coaxed the Soviets to begin attacking the United States, thus escalating the Cold War into a very, very hot war. He thought about how little groups were working, striving, grappling all the time, trying to change the course of history. Some succeeded. He thought about Aleksander, this suave, charming man, yet so willing to sacrifice his daughter and the lives of so many others for his twisted ideals.

He thought about the Freedom Movement in East Berlin, trying to get the Wall down. He thought about the students he had just met, protesting Apartheid. In a way, they made him feel a little bit better. He wasn't the only one trying to change history for the better, just a little bit. He hoped they too were successful.

He smiled to himself as he bought a ticket for London.

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The plot of this story is loosely based on a real-life incident where a high-level spy ring hired soldiers to assassinate Gorbachev while he was visiting East Germany in 1989. The plot was discovered and stopped by a British spy living there at the time and he recently wrote a book about it. I found it fascinating how history was changed so much by this one man's actions and none of us knew about it at the time.


End file.
